


Clair-Obscur

by la_faerie



Series: Paris, je t'aime [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Zayn angsting around Paris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 17:41:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_faerie/pseuds/la_faerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn and Niall act on a bet they made with each other, and the pay-off ends up being more complicated than either of them expected.</p>
<p>This is a companion piece to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/711166">Paris Pratique</a> written from Zayn's point of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clair-Obscur

**Author's Note:**

> I have to start by saying that I tagged Liam/Louis here because their relationship hangs over everything - there's no escaping it. But I want to emphasize that this is very much Zayn's story. I just wanted to make that clear so that no one has disappointed expectations.
> 
> Since this story is about Zayn in Paris, there has to be artwork involved. I've included links to the paintings and poems referenced. Click on the title, and you can look at the artwork alongside Zayn if you want to.
> 
> The title of this fic is the French translation of the term [chiaroscuro](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chiaroscuro).
> 
> Shoutout to my Ziall family, you are the most amazing support system. This is for Lindsay, really.

Zayn knows he’s allowed to smoke inside the flat, it’s France, no one gives a shit. But it’s peaceful out in the dark, especially for a Friday night. It’s midnight, and the August humidity is finally receding. The metro is about to close, and groups of girls trip by looking for a taxi. They’re always giggling between themselves about some private unknowable joke, the chains on their expensive handbags clinking melodically into the night. They all look him up and down and smile to each other. The men look him up and down too, but they’re alone or in groups of two, conferring about where to head next.

Zayn must be giving off the vibe that he isn’t in the mood to be going anywhere, leaning back against the cool concrete of their apartment building on rue du Petit Pont, dragging deeply on his cigarette like it’s a lifeline. He’s exhausted, to be frank. It’s been a disaster of a night, and the thought of going back upstairs to check on Harry, Niall, and, most of all, Liam, makes him feel even more emotionally drained.

Zayn, Niall, and Harry had been afraid that Liam was physically rooted to the pavement outside the restaurant after his priest had walked away from him. They had all seen it: Liam leaning in for a goodnight kiss on the cheek, his mouth slowly slipping down and over, turning it into a real kiss, at last. There had been a brief moment in which Father Tommo had fallen into it. He had swayed into Liam’s space before freezing up, and then pushed Liam away. The sharply devastated look on his face as he had told Liam “no” and stalked away back down boulevard Saint-Germain had cut through even Zayn. It was the brief reciprocation of the kiss before the subsequent refusal—confirmation of both the mutual desire, and the impossibility of acting on it—that had made the situation just that much worse.

Liam is stronger than the three of them put together, but, luckily, Harry and Niall can cling on for dear life when they want to, and Zayn had known a shortcut back to the flat. They frog-marched him back through the quartier Latin, and were home in under ten minutes, pushing Liam through the door, and preparing for him to meltdown and have a proper cry. It was worse when he didn’t break down at all, and they all burst out shouting at him just to make some noise.

“Liam!” Niall had exploded. “What is your _deal_ bro?”

“You can’t just go kissing priests!” Zayn cried, tugging at the sleeve of Liam’s jacket for emphasis. “Honestly, mate, that’s not something you can do.”

“His face, Liam,” Harry added in a quieter voice. “The look on his face.”

That’s what had set Liam off. “I know, alright?” he yelled. “I fucking know!” He kicked the door to his room open and stomped over to his bed, taking his shoes off in the process and literally throwing them across the room. The violence was uncommon for him, and the three of them exchanged a worried look. It was decided that Harry and Niall would sit with him, while Zayn took a necessary smoke break before reporting back for Liam Duty.

Zayn now finishes his cigarette off, but instead of lighting up another one like he wants to do, he digs his key out of his pocket, and lets himself back inside.

 

Niall is closing Liam’s bedroom door just as Zayn comes back in. He raises his eyebrows as he shrugs off his leather jacket and kicks off his shoes, but Niall just puts his finger to his lips. Zayn refrains from rolling his eyes at the idea of Niall telling anyone else to be quiet, but only because this means things must have been rather serious with Liam if even Niall is making an effort to keep it down.

Zayn motions for Niall to come into his room, which is on the opposite side of the living room. There’s a tiny guest bedroom down the corridor, which Niall and Harry have been sharing all week, but tiny by Parisian standards means practically miniscule. Besides, Zayn is ready to collapse into his own bed, hopes that maybe Niall will just sit with him for a bit.

“So, how is he, then?” Zayn asks as he shuts his bedroom door.

“How do ya think?” Niall flails his arms a bit, apparently trying to communicate Liam’s state. “Still a mess.”

“Harry’s with him, though?”

“Yeah. When I left, Harry was literally sitting on top of him to get him to lie down. Liam could throw him off if he really wanted to, so hopefully he’ll get some rest now. Harry said he’d stay with him for the night.”

“Good, yeah.” Zayn rubs at his eyes, grateful to Harry for taking the night shift because he can’t be bothered with anyone else’s sleep habits at the moment. “He just needs some rest, he’ll feel better in the morning.”

“No, he won’t,” Niall laughs, and there’s an uncharacteristically harsh undertone to it. And fuck, he’s right. It’s so hard to be dishonest with Niall.

“Fine, I _wish_ he’d feel better in the morning. I wish he’d feel better right now,” Zayn huffs and squints at himself in the mirror above the antique-looking wooden dresser that had come with his room. He can see Niall’s reflection behind him, still standing by the door. His head is tilted to the side, giving Zayn a considering look.

“What about you?” Niall asks, and Zayn continues watching the reflection in the mirror as Niall takes a step forward.

“What about me?” he replies without turning around.

“Are you gonna be alright? Harry and I are leaving on Monday, and you two are still supposed to be here for a couple more weeks.”

“I dunno. I’ve still got some research to take care of, so I’ll just be working, I suppose.” Zayn pulls his t-shirt up over his head and tosses it in the direction of his laundry pile.

“I know, I know.” Niall takes another step closer, waving a hand around. “Always reading, always writing, always thinking. Wasn’t what I asked though.” Zayn finally turns to face Niall, and he’s much closer than expected. “Are you gonna be alright, though?”

“Yeah, course I will be.” Zayn smiles at him, but there’s a piercing quality to Niall’s blue eyes, like he refuses to be satisfied. “I like what I’m doing,” Zayn insists. “The work is good, it’s good for me.”

Niall doesn’t back down though. He’s really in Zayn’s space now, his expression hungry, as though he’s searching for something, but Zayn can’t help him because he’s missed what this assignment is.

“Hmmm.” Niall reaches out and traces his fingers up Zayn’s arm. It doesn’t really mean anything specific, and Zayn barely registers it. He doesn’t notice until Niall’s hand is curling around his neck, pulling him in close until their foreheads are pressed together. “Tell me about it, yeah?”

Zayn laughs, he can’t help himself. This entire night has turned out to be so strange. “The fuck do you mean?”

“Your infamous “work,” dumbass. Tell me what you’re working on,” Niall says, rolling his eyes, which is quite a sight to witness from this close. Zayn throws his head back laughing in earnest this time. It’s not that he’s secretive about his work—he sometimes discusses topics with Harry when they’re high and Harry’s bored of his own dissertation—but Niall has never been one for academia. Zayn looks him in the eye, and their faces are so close now that they’re breathing the same air. He can’t tell what’s suddenly shifted.

Niall’s eyelids are lowered like he’s staring at Zayn’s lips. He makes a movement forward as though he’s going in for a kiss, but he switches tracks and goes for Zayn’s jaw instead. Zayn blinks. An odd wave of something that feels strangely like disappointment is washing over him. He wonders if he’s having some kind of fever dream. Maybe in reality he’s still standing outside smoking and just hallucinating this. It would be more probable because, whatever he expected out of this night, feeling disappointed because Niall didn’t kiss him on the mouth was not it.

Because Niall isn’t kissing him on the mouth; instead, he’s nipping at his jawline. It’s just a light press of his mouth, but there’s a hint of teeth. Like Niall’s telling him he’s actually serious about this. Well, alright then.

“Coleridge,” Zayn says, tilting his head to look Niall square in the eye. “Samuel Taylor Coleridge.”

“Bro, you’re really gonna have to be more descriptive than that with me.” 

Zayn expects him to pull away, but he only moves in closer, nibbling just below his ear and then pressing kisses down his neck. And they’ve kissed casually before, on the cheek or the neck when especially drunk. Neither of them is drunk right now (Liam’s rejection had been sobering for everyone) and there’s a determined edge to Niall’s actions that makes Zayn think he’d better keep talking. 

“I’m studying one of his poems, in particular [_Christabel_](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173227),” Zayn explains in as steady a voice as he can. He reaches for Niall’s waist because he’s feeling dangerously close to losing his balance, and he needs to keep his grip. “It’s interesting because it was left unfinished.”

“Unfinished?” Niall gives a little laugh that Zayn feels as a little huff of air against his neck. “Why? And how can you even study it that way?”

“That’s what makes it interesting!” Zayn cries, digging his fingers into Niall’s waist. “It’s so much more complex, it just raises so many questions!” He ends up jostling them both a little bit in his energetic defense against Niall’s questioning, and he feels Niall grinning into his neck as they topple backwards onto the bed. Zayn lands on his back with Niall at his side, and the bed groans underneath them. “It’s just that,” Zayn feels that he still needs to make a point, “Coleridge is classified as a Romantic poet, that’s why I’m studying him, obviously. But _Christabel_ contains so many elements of the Gothic. And the question is, you know, what is this poem, really? Like, can it be all these things at once?”

Niall is still lying on his side next to Zayn. He rests his head on Zayn’s stomach, tracing a finger around his belly button, then continues down through the trail of hair there until he reaches the top of Zayn’s trousers. He doesn’t attempt to undo them, just lets his fingers rest between the fabric and Zayn’s skin. Before Zayn has the chance to really register any of this, Niall props himself up on one arm to look back at him. “Hey,” he says, with a mischievous smile that sears right through Zayn’s gut. “I didn’t say to stop talking.”

Zayn wants to laugh again, but a kind of haze is engulfing him, and he ends up gasping instead as Niall leans back down to trace kisses around Zayn’s stomach in a little circle.

“If you really wanna know…”

“I really wanna know.”

“ _Christabel_ is about these two women, Christabel, obviously, and Geraldine. They end up going to bed together—”

“Now we’re talking!”

Zayn has the presence of mind to swat the back of Niall’s head.

“It’s not erotic, you lunatic. I mean it is, to some degree, but it’s also morbid and frightening and kind of sad. Which, again, sounds more Gothic influenced than anything.”

Niall has been running a hand up and down Zayn’s inner-thigh, not touching his dick, but it’s achingly close, and if Niall would just move his hand over an inch, he’d be right there. Then the pressure on his thigh is gone, and Zayn doesn’t realize that he’s closed his eyes until he has to open them to see what’s going on. Niall is sitting back on his heels looking down at him with a stern expression.

“You’re gonna be some kind of shit professor if you get distracted this easily. I haven’t even touched your cock yet, and you’re already gone!”

That’s enough to snap Zayn out of his fog. He sits up on elbows, indignant. “Yeah, cheers, I’d noticed! Maybe you could help out a little bit in that area? And if we’re really gonna do this,” he gives Niall a hard look, offering him an out if he wants it, but Niall doesn’t break eye contact, “the bet was a blowjob, yeah? So, you wanna get a move on with that, or what?”

Niall just smiles back at him, and it’s completely infuriating. Zayn feels himself tipping over the edge back into a haze because Niall’s leaning into him again. His cheeks are pinking up and his mouth is impossibly close, but he’s not going in for a kiss this time, either. He’s leaning over to whisper in Zayn’s ear.

“I’ll keep going if you keep going. That’s the deal now, yeah?”

But it’s not really a question, and Zayn knows it. “I’ve been tricked!” he gasps out as he falls back into the mattress, his body going limp. He’s really lost his grip on everything. “I won the stupid fucking bet but somehow you’re… you’re doing this!” Niall laughs as he shimmies back down the bed.

“The Irish don’t lose, not _really_. I thought you’d know that by now.”

“Can’t you ever shut up about the bloody Irish for two seconds?”

“Sorry, that’s a no. Besides, it’s your turn.” Niall kneels back, crossing his arms, raising an eyebrow at Zayn. Fuck, Zayn thinks, the bastard is actually gonna make him talk.

Making the bet with each other had been casual enough: “sure, I’ll blow you.” But now they’re actually following through, and everything about this night has been a little too painfully real so far. It isn’t awkward, but it is slightly alarming because they’ve never done any of this before: talking about schoolwork or sucking each other off. They’re a friendly bunch of people as a group, Harry especially will take any opportunity to snuggle with someone. And Niall always ends up kissing everyone in sight when he’s drunk or when his football team has won (there’s lots of overlap there), but the fact is, they’ve never done _this_. Intimacy with intent. And Niall is making him talk them both through it.

“Take the paintings I’ve been studying, some at the Louvre and at the Delacroix museum. It’s…they’re—” he stutters as Niall undoes his trousers and pulls them down. He lifts up his hips to help Niall pull his trousers and boxers all the way off, and tries to continue speaking so that Niall won’t stop. “They can be morbid and downright violent, too. Sometimes Romanticism is about an individual person learning about nature and being at peace with it.” Niall has settled himself between Zayn’s legs now. “And sometimes, especially when a woman is the subject, it becomes quite morbid. Like, nature can be a threat as well.”

“Hmm, can it really?” Niall asks, _finally_ getting a hand on Zayn’s dick. But he’s speaking in the tone of voice he’d use to inquire about the weather.

“Yes,” Zayn manages to choke out. “Like in _Christabel_. So, really, the whole thing is a question of genre.”

Niall has the audacity to laugh. “You’re not ambitious at all, are you? Taking on the entire fucking genre!”

“Well, yes, through one poem!” It’s perfectly valid, it _is_. He’ll prove it to Niall sometime. Later. Possibly at a time when he doesn’t have a hand wrapped around Zayn’s dick.

Zayn is about to suggest that maybe Niall should be a little more ambitious himself, when he finally does take some initiative. He gets one hand around the base of Zayn’s cock and then leans all the way down, licking around the head first, before taking him in. There’s a little bit of teeth involved, causing Zayn to swear and inhale sharply. But Niall quickly adjusts, balances himself with one arm on Zayn’s hip, and goes to work, putting in the effort, hollowing out his cheeks and everything.

Perhaps it shouldn’t be a surprise that Niall is talented with his mouth, but Zayn feels like he’s being absolutely flattened by the force of just how good he can be. He couldn’t speak even if he wanted to. And he very much does not want to because his train of thought is one embarrassing, incoherent stream of _oh my fuck yes Niall please Niall_.

Zayn manages to open his eyes to look down, but Niall is bent over, concentrating and making these little sucking noises and moans that sound surprisingly amazing to Zayn’s ears. He can’t see Niall’s face. All he can see is Niall’s hair, blonde at the tips, but gradually fading into a deep brown at the roots. The colors are like a kaleidoscope, and that’s only just his hair. 

_Impressionism_ , Zayn thinks wildly to himself. Niall is Impressionism. Niall is so different to everything he’s been around all summer, and it’s really, it’s really—

Zayn is so lost in the moment that he doesn’t have time to give a warning. He comes with a shout, and the realization of just how nice it is to be around someone defined by light and movement.

 

Zayn blinks his eyes open, wondering how long he’d been out. It can’t have been that long because Niall is still here, but he’s sitting on the edge of the bed with his back toward Zayn. He rolls over on his side and realizes that he’s naked. Because he’s in bed with Niall. Right.

“Ah, Sleeping Beauty,” Niall turns his body slightly. The bed must’ve creaked when Zayn moved. “You back among the living now?”

“Think so. Holy shit, Nialler.” Niall just shakes his head, and Zayn realizes that he’s wiping off his own stomach with a tissue and pulling up his boxers. “Hey, did you…? Did you already…?”

“What, took care of myself? Yeah.”

“No!” Zayn feels unaccountably bad in a way that isn’t just gentleman’s guilt. “I could’ve helped with that.”

“Not in the state you were in. Weren’t fit for anything,” Niall laughs and stands up. “Where the hell is the bin in this place? Do French people not throw things out?” He’s walking toward the door, his trousers still undone and barely staying up around his skinny hips.

“Where are you going?” Zayn asks in a quiet voice. His brain is feeling foggier than usual after an orgasm. All he knows is that Niall is walking away from him, and that somehow isn’t what he wants right now.

“To take a shower and go to bed, of course. It’s gonna be another long day tomorrow.” Zayn sags back into the mattress as he remembers Liam’s state of mind. “Sweet Romantic poet dreams!” Niall whispers from the doorway, and gives what Zayn thinks is a horribly unfair wink before leaving.

Zayn rolls off the bed and finds his boxers and his trousers in a heap on the floor at the foot of his bed. He adds them to the ever-growing laundry pile in the corner of the room. He figures Liam will end up doing all the laundry in the flat before the weekend is over since he enjoys tidying up at the best of times, and his way of dealing with emotional turmoil is to aggressively not mope.

Zayn ends up kicking the laundry toward the door, thinking that Niall’s goodnight wish really was unfair. Because hadn’t Zayn just spent all that time between them explaining that Romanticism actually isn’t sweet at all, that it can be quite menacing, if you really think about it? Hadn’t Niall been listening at all? No, Zayn realizes, and even if he had been listening, why would he bother to remember. He can feign interest, but, ultimately, none of this affects Niall.

The flat doesn’t have air conditioning, so Zayn thinks he might as well just sleep naked. It’s not as though he needs to worry about Liam, Harry, or especially Niall now catching a glimpse of anything they haven’t already seen. He tumbles back into bed and listens to the odd alternating sounds and silences of the old Parisian building.

Zayn drifts off to sleep dreaming about two people going to bed together, and the complexity of an unfinished work.

+

The next afternoon, Zayn is standing at the living room window, clutching a mug of tea and taking in the view of the street below when Liam sidles up to him.

“I’m going to apologize,” he announces. “I’m going over to apologize right now.” He has his black jacket on already.

“Are you sure?” Zayn asks, taking Liam’s arm, wrapping a hand around his elbow, wanting to steady him. “Maybe give him a day to cool off?”

“No, I’ve got to do it now before I lose my nerve. I know he’s got Mass later, so he’ll definitely be at the église now.”

“Just let him go,” Harry whispers, as they fix some good luck fortifying tea for Liam in the kitchen a few minutes later (it’s mainly sugar with a tiny hint of tea added) “He won’t forgive himself until he at least tries to set things right.”

“I know, I’m just worried. Father Tommo… he was so upset. And you can’t blame him.”

“Harry’s right for once,” Niall joins in, clapping him on the back. Zayn gives a start, but only out of surprise. Not because Niall’s hand lingers on his shoulder. “We have to let him go, and hope that he’ll come back better. Now, here, give us the tea.”

“I know you’re talking about me!” Liam yells from the sofa in the living room.

“Only because we love you!” Harry shouts back.

“Where’s the teaaa?!” is the answering whine.

The three of them swallow Liam up in a group hug before he heads out for Église Notre-Dame des Champs. They send him out the door to shouts of “Good Luck! Bonne Chance!” and “Fuck yeah!”

 

“I’m cooking dinner!” Harry proclaims into the quiet flat. “Tonight. I’m cooking for us. Last weekend in Paris. Well, it’s Niall’s and my only weekend in Paris.”

“Just make sure it’s something good,” Niall insists.

“It’s always good!” Harry cries, taking offense. He opens and closes several of the kitchen cupboards before turning around to face Zayn. “Hang on, you guys don’t actually have much food. I know we ate out a lot this week, but, I have to ask, do you eat here, like, ever?”

“Not that often, to be honest. Liam, well, he _used_ to go out with his priest pretty frequently.”

“Let’s make a list, c’mon Harry,” Niall is saying. “Lots of food for tonight. I’ll buy the alcohol.”

“Sure, here’s a pen. Write down whatever you like, and I’ll think of something to make from those ingredients.” Harry tosses a pen in Niall’s direction, but then he turns back to Zayn. “And you?”

“Out and about,” Zayn says with a shrug. “Grabbing a crepe here and there. Or something to eat at a café while getting some reading done. You know how student life is.”

“Always reading.” Niall shakes his head. “Anyway, what do we think about pasta? Do they make good marinara sauce here? Or maybe we should we stay away from Italian food altogether? ”

But Harry isn’t listening, he’s staring at Zayn instead. “You’re being awfully cryptic,” he says, his eyes narrowed. “Were you meeting up with any priests of your own, or what?”

“I swear to Father Tommo, Liam is the only one with a priest.”

“No one though? For you?” Harry has a wicked gleam in his eye that Zayn can’t look away from. Niall doesn’t rescue him, doesn’t speak up. He’s only noticeable through his silence.

“Ah, a few people,” he says vaguely, but he knows Harry isn’t going to let him get away with that. “One American girl who turned out to be staying at this really posh hotel. That was a fun night.”

He isn’t being secretive on purpose. They’ve talked about this kind of thing loads of times between the three of them. But, of course, never right after just having hooked up with Niall. Harry doesn’t know that though, because Zayn hasn’t told him. He can tell Niall hasn’t said anything either because Harry can’t keep secrets, certainly not secrets about blowjobs. Moreover, Zayn isn’t really sure about the etiquette for this type of conversation now, with Niall in the room. Nor does he want to dwell too much on the reasons why his throat suddenly feels so dry and tight.

“An American, come on, Zayn! Out of any of us, you could pull a real French person. You have the look. Le look!” Harry strikes a pose that Zayn supposes is meant to be an imitation of him: all slouched over, his cheeks sucked in, and two fingers held up for a cigarette. Zayn rolls his eyes.

“I didn’t say that I didn’t pull any French people,” he teases. “Met a guy at a bar in the Marais. Well, I assume he was French. We didn’t do much talking.”

“Arrgghh!” Harry and Zayn turn to stare at Niall, who is aggressively pressing the pen into a notepad on the countertop. He looks up at them, his cheeks burning. “This fucking pen is broken! Out of ink!”

“No problem,” Harry answers calmly. “I’ll just make the grocery list up in my phone. And you’ll be charge of the booze, of course.”

“I better be!” Niall huffs. “Sorry,” he adds, sheepishly sliding the offending pen across the counter.

“It’s fine. That Irish temper!” Harry nudges him with his elbow, but then grins and picks up the pen to toss it out. “I’m gonna change, but then we can hit the store, oui?” He wanders out of the kitchen leaving Niall and Zayn alone.

“You gonna come with us?” Niall asks, looking Zayn directly in the eye for the first time.

“Nah.” Zayn shifts his weight from foot to foot.

“It’s Saturday, don’t tell me you’re working.”

“Research is a full-time job. I’m starting my program in a month and I really have to know my shit. Besides, I keep telling you,” Zayn adds in a lower voice, “I like it.”

“I know you do.” Niall gives him a funny little smile that Zayn has never seen before. He thinks there’s almost something melancholic about it, but then he doubts himself because that’s so unlike Niall. Zayn blinks, and Niall is turning away. “Styles! Styler!” he’s yelling. “You ready? I want beer AND champagne for tonight! I want everything!”

Zayn remains in the kitchen alone, feeling restless. It’s not that he minds discussing the details of his sex life with Harry, but he also doesn’t mind keeping the fact that he and Niall had settled their bet a secret.

He isn’t sorry about his few hookups from over the summer. That American girl had leaned across to his table in the brasserie asking if he could spare a cigarette with an air of such confidence, and, to be honest, Zayn had found it sexy as hell. It was just a bonus that her gorgeous hotel room had turned out have a marble jacuzzi, of which they had made good use. It was really the initial approach that had attracted him. It reminds him of the way Niall had come toward him last night in his room, slowly, but like he was certain that Zayn wouldn’t flinch away.

He closes his eyes and considers his options for the afternoon. It’s too late in the day to settle in at any of the libraries for a long enough time to get substantial work done, but he could try the museums if he feels like battling it out with Saturday crowds. He casts around the kitchen as if he’ll happen upon the answers to all of his questions right here in the flat. His glance falls on the notepad Niall had been attempting to write on earlier. Zayn can’t make out any words written down, just a splotch of ink where it looks as though the pen had bled out.

 

Going to the Louvre on a Saturday turns out to be a colossally stupid idea. It’s quite late in the afternoon by the time Zayn makes his way over, but it’s still packed with tourists attempting to make sense of signs pointing in vague directions for La Joconde.

“La Joconde, what the hell is that?” he overhears a group of Americans. “How weird, I thought everyone would just call her the Mona Lisa!”

Unfortunately for him, he is headed in the direction of the busiest halls of paintings. He salutes the statue of Winged Victory—Nike in all her glory—that presides over the main staircase, and then turns right to fight his way through the crowded Renaissance. He looks properly stoic while passing by the monumental Neoclassical history paintings, and finally lets out a sigh of relief when he reaches Romanticism.

There’s an open spot on one of the wooden benches in the middle of the long hall in front of Géricault’s [Le Radeau de la Méduse](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/f1/G%C3%A9ricault_-_La_zattera_della_Medusa.jpg/800px-G%C3%A9ricault_-_La_zattera_della_Medusa.jpg), and he snags it. He takes out his Moleskine and, instead of taking notes, begins sketching a copy of the painting in an effort to memorize it. Géricault’s lines are clearly defined, cutting strong figures. But the subject of the painting is a shipwreck, the water is roiling, and the sky is grim. Zayn feels more convinced than ever that he’s correct about the undercurrent of menace threading its way through Romanticism.

He wishes Niall were here so that he could easily point it out instead of trying to explain it in that fumbling way he had attempted last night. But Niall wouldn’t want to come to a museum, he had been in Paris all week and hadn’t visited a single one. Obviously he would rather traipse around with Harry, the two of them stumbling into whatever trouble they could find. Zayn feels as though he’s always the one sitting still while everything is in motion around him. Even earlier today, he had wanted to stop Liam from taking action, to keep him still. But of course that isn’t how Liam deals with his emotions.

Frankly Zayn doesn’t see what’s wrong with sitting quietly and sketching away while the crowd swirls around him. It’s peaceful, except for a swooping sensation in his stomach when he imagines Niall sitting next to him, perhaps fidgeting with his snapback, pointing out little details of the painting and comparing Zayn’s sketch to original.

He stays until the museum security guards begin ushering people toward the exits. As he walks home through the Parisian dusk, he realizes with a start that he hasn’t heard from Liam all afternoon, no texts, nothing. He climbs the stairway to the flat hoping that no news is good news.

He opens their door to see Liam standing on the other side, his hand held out like he had been reaching for the doorknob. He’s wearing an old grey t-shirt, basketball shorts, and trainers. His expression is completely unreadable.

“I’m going for a jog,” he says in a flat voice.

“What?” Zayn asks, stepping inside. He’ll never understand why anyone would willingly go for a run.

“Yeah, I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Liam, wait!” he cries, realizing what’s happening. Something is off. “It’s almost dark out. You shouldn’t go right now.”

“I won’t be out long.”

“Liam, please.” He knows he’s doing it again, trying to keep Liam still. But this feels important. “French people don’t jog. And it’s getting dark. This really isn’t a good idea.” But Liam just sets his jaw, meaning that he’s not going to argue, but he’s also not going to listen to Zayn. “Fine,” Zayn gives in. “Please just be careful.” Liam gives a curt nod before closing the door behind him. Zayn turns around to see Harry and Niall peeking around the corner of the hallway from the kitchen. “A lot of help you two were!” Zayn calls.

“It’s no use,” Harry says, stepping into the corridor. “He won’t listen to anything right now.”

“Our poor Liam, he’s crushed.” Niall says, making a slashing motion across his throat to demonstrate.

Zayn grimaces. “Oh, perfect, he’s depressed as hell and now he’ll probably get mugged because he insisted on going running in those ugly trainers like the biggest twat tourist of all time.”

“He’s not going to get mugged,” Harry assures, walking over and slinging an arm around Zayn.

“If he does, I’m suing you two for negligence and a lack of help when I needed you.”

“Can’t sue me! I have nothing to offer,” Niall yells, holding his hands out as if to prove it.

Harry skips over to Niall and grabs both his hands, lacing their fingers together. “You have me,” he proclaims in a tone that manages to be both silly and earnest.

“Okay, I can offer you Harry, but he isn’t worth much. He’s useless for basically anything besides cooking. But he does have this beautiful hair.” Niall breaks the handholding to pet his head. Harry allows it, and leans into it with a serene smile.

“Careful, I’ll shave it all off,” Zayn threatens darkly.

“You wouldn’t dare!” Harry cries, clutching protectively at his head.

“Don’t be like that!” Niall waves his hand, as though that will make Zayn’s mood dissolve. The alarming thing is that it almost works. “Look, Liam’s fucked up right now, yeah? But you don’t need to worry _so much_ about him. I mean, worry a little bit. Just don’t make yourself sick about it. It will work out.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I’m not sure at all. I am optimistic, though.” Zayn shakes his head. It’s not that he’s a pessimist. And it’s not that he’s unhappy. He just doesn’t understand how Niall can be so light—weightless—never carrying any anxiety around with him. Zayn doesn’t know how to be like that.

“Here.” Harry latches onto his shoulder again, giving him a squeeze. “Have a drink. We bought a bottle of champagne, but Liam nearly vomited just at the sight of it, and refused to have any. Do you think we should try to finish it before he gets back?”

“Definitely,” Niall declares.

“I can open it.” Zayn strides into the kitchen and grabs the bottle, because he really would like a drink, actually. Maybe champagne is just what he needs to feel a little bit lighter. After a couple of tries, he pops the cork out, and then takes a swig straight from the bottle.

Niall whoops and yells, “Sláinte!” Zayn passes him the bottle. Niall flashes him a grin, and he feels like the champagne is already working.

 

They finish off the bottle quickly, passing it between the three of them, shouting when one is hogging it for too long. They end up sitting in a circle on the hardwood floor of the kitchen, the empty bottle in the center.

“We should play spin the bottle,” Harry suggests, waggling his eyebrows.

Zayn pulls a face. “Nah, there are only three of us. That’s boring.”

“You’re the one making it boring!” Harry cries, giving the bottle a spin anyway. “Too bad, it landed on Niall. I wanted to kiss that dumb disapproving look off your face.” Harry makes a kissy face at him, before leaning over to Niall.

“Ya lunatic!” Niall laughs, but he leans in and kisses Harry on the lips. It only lasts for a few seconds, and it’s maybe the most chaste kiss Zayn’s ever seen Harry give anyone. Still, there’s a roaring sound in his ears, and he stands up and takes a few steps backwards before he even realizes what he’s doing.

“You weren’t kidding, Zayner, you really are in a mood.” Harry breaks away from Niall, whining, “Don’t you wanna play _anything_?” But Zayn isn’t listening. His plan is backfiring because he doesn’t feel light at all. He feels full, as though the drink and maybe something else indefinable are bubbling up inside him.

“Leave off him, Harry,” Niall says in such a quiet voice, it almost doesn’t even sound like Niall. He’s talking to Harry, not to Zayn. Of course he’s talking to Harry. He kisses Harry. He talks to Harry. Something that feels a lot like panic surges through Zayn, because, here’s the problem: he isn’t sure how to approach Niall. And he isn’t sure why he suddenly cares so desperately. Luckily, a pounding noise provides a distraction from the thoughts swirling in his head.

“Oh, shit!” Niall cries. “Liam!”

Zayn rushes over to the door and opens it to the sight of a sweaty Liam. “Did you not bring your key?” he snaps.

“No, forgot.” Liam shrugs, and brushes past Zayn through to the kitchen. “Luckily someone else was coming into the building at the same time I was.”

“Fuck, Liam! I was already worried about you. Don’t do stupid shit like forgetting your key and your mobile on top of everything!” Zayn knows he’s scolding, which is obnoxious, but he can’t stop himself. Liam is normally the responsible one, always looking after the three of them. But it appears that now he can’t even be bothered to look after himself, which is alarming. Liam just stares back at him, but then he spots the empty bottle of champagne, still sitting on the floor. The corners of his mouth turn down.

“I’m going for a shower,” he says in a terse voice and turns away.

“Stupid bloody champagne!” Zayn hisses after they hear the bathroom door snap shut.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, picking up the bottle and getting to his feet. “I should’ve just thrown the bottle out.” His eyes are wide with genuine emotion, and Zayn can’t help warming to him again.

“It’s alright,” he says, some of the tension draining out of his body. “How were we supposed to know that champagne of all things is some kind of trigger for him?” Harry drops the empty bottle in the bin, and he, Zayn, and Niall stare at each other helplessly. “Er, did he actually say what happened?” Zayn asks them. “Did he tell you any details at all?”

“All he said was that it didn’t work,” Harry says, shaking his head.

“Couldn’t work,” Niall pipes up. “He said specifically: “it couldn’t work” and then he closed himself in his room.” Harry and Zayn look at him. “Sorry, the distinction seemed important. To him, anyway.”

“Should I still make dinner?” Harry asks. “Do you think he’ll eat anything?”

“We should make sure he eats, especially since he went running,” Zayn answers, rubbing at his eyes. “I’m gonna lie down for a bit actually. Let me know when he’s out of the shower. We can attack him, and try to force food and hugs on him.”

“Right! I’ll start working on something here, then.” Harry starts humming to himself as he opens the fridge.

Zayn catches Niall’s eye. He looks like he’s on the verge of saying something to Zayn, but then he averts his gaze. “Gonna start packing up, actually,” is what he ends up saying. “Only been here a week, but my shit’s everywhere.”

“Hot mess!” Harry giggles.

“That’s not what that means,” Niall replies, rolling his eyes.

“Non?”

“It doesn’t mean literal mess. That’s why it’s a hot mess.”

“Are you sure?”

Zayn is glad to close the door to his room on this conversation. He leans back against it, closing his eyes. No one is acting like themselves anymore. Liam is irreversibly off, and his steadfast refusal to breakdown and show any kind of emotion only makes it worse. And, if Zayn’s being perfectly honest, he thinks Harry is being kind of an oblivious jerk.

But Zayn knows in his gut that the root of his problem at the moment isn’t that Niall kissed Harry and not him. It’s that Niall hasn’t talked to him—properly talked to him—since last night. He’d probably laid it on too thick with the Romantic ramblings. Of course Niall wouldn’t give a fuck about _Christabel_ , and is probably terrified that talking to Zayn will set him off on another academic tangent. The thing is, he really can’t blame Niall.

Zayn had come to Paris for the same reason as many people before him: to lose himself in the history and beauty of the city. But he had always taken that fact literally—wandering through the curious alleys of Père Lachaise cemetery, or getting lost in the hectic streets of Monmartre. It never occurred to him that getting lost in Paris doesn’t have to be literal. It never occurred to him that Paris changes you from the inside out. Zayn wanders over to his bed and flops down face first, feeling as though he won’t make it out of this city unscathed.

+

Niall and Harry catch a flight home on Monday morning. Harry’s mum apparently had a whole stock of frequent flier miles saved up, so they essentially booked the tickets for free. They have to leave early to make it to the airport on time, so they all say goodbye at the flat. Harry reaches for Zayn first, curling a hand around his shoulder and pulling him close, considering him with searching eyes. That expression makes Zayn think that maybe Harry is more observant than he looks. Harry turns up one corner of his mouth in a sly grin, as though he can guess what Zayn’s thinking, before pulling him in close against his chest for a hug.

“I’ll miss you so much, Romantic poet,” he whispers.

This sends a tremor through Zayn’s whole body. Maybe Niall _had_ said something? Or maybe this floppy-haired idiot really is observant, and Zayn should reevaluate his entire opinion of Harry. He mostly has a face full of curly hair, and when he half gasps-half laughs, he ends up with a mouthful. He pushes Harry back with an arm to the chest, gives him a pointed look. “I want a real welcome home meal when I get back, so start practicing now,” is all he says.

Harry puts a hand over his heart, yelling, “I promise!” Then he winks, and turns, knocking Niall out of the way to smother Liam in an all-enveloping hug. Niall and Zayn just stare at each other for a moment. Zayn shoves his hands in his pockets, raises his eyebrows.

“So,” he starts. “I’ll see ya?” and shit, he didn’t mean for that to come out as a question.

“Yeah, might do.” Niall wrinkles his nose. “When ya finally ditch this joint, and get back to Londontown.” Zayn tries to shake his head and shrug at the same time, and it’s terrible. He probably looks as though he’s trying not to sneeze. Surely his body hasn’t always been this awkward? Next to him, Harry is smacking loud kisses onto Liam’s cheeks, and it’s not helping.

“You twat, you know I like Paris.”

For whatever reason, that’s what sets Niall in motion. He closes the distance between them, pulls Zayn in with a hand around the back of his neck. And even though they’re about the same height now, Niall leans down and buries his head in the crook where Zayn’s neck and shoulder meet. “Take care of it, yeah?” he whispers into Zayn’s skin. “Take care of Paris.” Zayn doesn’t need him to repeat it. Even though Niall hadn’t been speaking in his ear, he hears the words exactly. He’s dumbfounded for a moment, stands completely still while Niall hugs him. Then he remembers that he has arms that he can use too, so he wraps them around Niall’s back, pulling him in that much closer. Breathing feels difficult all of a sudden, and he tries to re-teach himself the rhythm of inhale/exhale.

Niall breaks away first, and that makes sense. He’s the one who has to leave, after all. He doesn’t say anything more. He merely looks at Zayn, his blue eyes uncharacteristically inscrutable, and gives him that funny little smile again. It’s the one that Zayn can’t read. It’s the one he thinks about long after Harry and Niall have waved their final goodbyes, tumbled down the stairs, and out into the street. It’s the one that haunts him, because he should be able to read it. That’s what he does. He looks at words and images, sorts them through in his head, and then forms a conclusion. But there’s something deliberately opaque in this instance, as though Niall wants to remain unreadable.

+

Liam runs enough that he must have run around all of Paris twice by now. Zayn attempts to get him to open up, as gently as he can, without really pressing him: just a touch to the wrist and an open invitation to join him at the Louvre.

Liam turns his head sharply, his eyebrows drawn together in a stern line. “Tuileries,” he says, his voice tense. “Too near the Tuileries.”

“Liam!” Zayn calls one morning, before he can reach the door. “Where do you go running? If not near the Tu—I mean, not near the city center. Where do you go everyday?”

“Toward the Bastille,” he answers. “Sometimes beyond it.” So he’s running outward, Zayn thinks, running toward the city perimeter. Trying to escape Paris without actually leaving.

“Be careful!” Zayn says, but Liam has already shut the door. All that’s left for Zayn to do is to grab his Moleskin, and go to the Louvre by himself.

The upside is that it gives him time to be alone with Romanticism, time to really live in it. He sits before Géricault and Delacroix, tracing over the lines of their works with his eyes, and then with his pencil in his notebook. As his sketches begin to become more fully formed, he searches for anything the artists might reveal to him, and it dawns on Zayn that, more than any other artistic movement, Romanticism is about self-expression on a fundamental level. It’s about expression in the most raw of ways, exposing the artist’s personal fears and joys. He begins to understand the source of that frightening undercurrent he’d found to be so common to Romantic works, because true self-expression is one of the most terrifying things he can think of.

He’s also beginning to understand Liam. Running is the only outlet he has to express himself, or the only outlet he’s allowing himself. Zayn had known that Liam wouldn’t mope, but this routine seems too unforgiving, too harsh. But then, who is he to question? He isn’t sure that he has any outlets himself these days, except for scrawling notes in the margins of a book, or sitting in front of a painting, trying to capture the details.

 

The idea strikes Zayn like a flash of lighting. They have just over a week left in Paris, and Liam still hasn’t snapped out of his unrelenting ritual. And maybe Zayn needs to talk to someone, too. Maybe he’s in just as much need as Liam. Maybe it’s time for him to stop sitting still.

He scrolls through Liam’s phone one morning while Liam is in the shower and sees that the name “Father Tommo” is still there, a French phone number flashing up at him. However, it doesn’t feel appropriate to call, and certainly not to text. Showing up without warning is awkward, but Zayn convinces himself that surely that’s why the church is there. It’s a place where anyone in need of an audience or refuge—or maybe a little bit of both—can turn for comfort.

That’s how Zayn finds himself hopping off the metro at Montparnasse-Bienvenüe and striding up the boulevard with a purpose. As he approaches Église Notre-Dame des Champs, he notices that one of the wooden doors is propped open, and he thinks that’s a sign if he’s ever seen one. He hovers inside the doorway, rooted to the spot, suddenly overcome with the realization that this is very much not his territory, that Liam’s priest might throw him out because he’s, well, a priest, and he can throw treacherous people out of his church if he wants. Zayn wouldn’t blame him because Liam had crossed a line, and perhaps he’s crossing a line now too.

It turns out that he doesn’t need to move because Liam’s priest is right there, walking down the aisle towards him. He isn’t smiling, but he isn’t breathing fire, either, and Zayn will take that as a plus. He’s dressed more formally than Zayn has seen before, in a black button down shirt, with a white collar peeking out—unmistakable—around his neck. Zayn tries to make himself look as small as possible, maybe he’ll just keep walking and pass right by. No such luck, as he stops in front of Zayn. He gives Zayn a polite look, but his blue eyes are sharp with questions.

Zayn starts to address him as “Father Tommo,” but then stumbles. There’s no other way to describe it, he looks like an authority figure in his element, and Zayn feels off-balance trying to speak to him. “Père Louis!” he corrects himself. Perhaps approaching him at the église had been the wrong idea after all.

Père Louis raises an eyebrow almost imperceptibly, but he seems to understand. He suggests they take the conversation outside, and guides Zayn around the side of the building to a pretty little garden. Zayn feels instinctively at ease in this space, with Père Louis encouraging him to sit down and speak his mind. He starts spilling everything: all his frustrations about Liam, his cluelessness as to how to deal with it, it all comes tumbling out.

Père Louis makes a couple of comments and gives him the occasional pointed look when Zayn touches on dangerous territory. But mostly, he listens. Zayn feels such a rush of relief at this that he almost doesn’t need the cigarette he’s smoking, the nicotine nothing in comparison to the high of finally talking.

Zayn sees why Liam had gravitated toward this man, why he had come home one day, diving over the top of the sofa and smothering Zayn out of excitement, shouting, “Guess what! Guess who I ran into again? That nice priest!”

“You mean that _young_ priest.”

“Yes, that nice young priest,” Liam had answered in such a genuine tone that Zayn didn’t have the heart to tease him. He had merely squeezed Liam’s hand, and then watched—half wary, half happy—as Liam had slowly gone from smitten, to fond, to in love. It’s only just dawning on Zayn now how much Liam is losing. Père Louis might have a sharp wit, but he isn’t flippant. No, there’s something rocksteady about him, something that makes people want to sit next to him and be soothed.

Zayn says it before he even fully realizes the ramifications of it: “Liam is heartbroken.” He repeats the word, “Heartbroken,” as if to drive the point home to himself, and it finally, finally clicks. No wonder Liam’s been running toward the outer limits of Paris in a mad frenzy. He’s lost all sense of direction.

However, he regrets saying it immediately, because it turns out to be the thing that cracks Père Louis open. His face crumbles, and tears are spilling down his cheeks before Zayn can even blink. He looks impossibly young, and Zayn remembers that, at one time, he must’ve been just a boy named Louis. Right now, he’s a boy named Louis whose heart is broken not because of another person, but because of circumstance, and Zayn thinks that seems more cruel.

Zayn leans in close, trying to offer comfort, their roles now reversed. He quickly realizes that letting him cry might actually be the kindest thing to do. He stands up and lights another cigarette just to have something to occupy his hands. Père Louis is doing all the crying that Liam has refused to do, and Zayn is struck with the wild hope that somehow Liam might sense that this is happening, and feel some relief.

Zayn knows that he has to be careful, that he can’t actually demand that Père Louis forgive Liam. But he can suggest that the two of them come up with a way to get some closure. After Père Louis has dried his eyes and steadied his breathing, Zayn gets ready to leave. When he gives a look back over his shoulder, and receives a small but genuine smile in return, he thinks that he’s succeeded. He closes the gate to the garden, and steals one more glance back.

Père Louis doesn’t know he’s being watched now. He’s setting his shoulders as though bracing himself to say goodbye to Liam. A noticeable change comes over his blue eyes—there’s a gleaming metallic edge there, like armour. All traces of the young boy Louis are gone, replaced by someone older, someone more bruised, but also someone uniquely self-possessed. It had come at a hard cost, to be sure. But Zayn can’t help admiring Père Louis’ sense of conviction, and wishes that he felt even half as much certainty about his own choices and his own vocation.

The image of that metallic glint in Père Louis’s eyes stay with Zayn as he catches the metro back to Saint Michel. He sees them later that night as he tries to fall asleep. He tosses and turns, thinking of another pair of blue eyes, wondering if there’s anything he could do to ensure that they never look so serious, so steely.

+

Zayn doesn’t tell Liam about his meeting with Père Louis. It’s not that he wants to keep secrets from Liam. It’s just that part of him is afraid that his instinct had been wrong, that Père Louis won’t contact him, and it would be unspeakably awful to see Liam any more crushed than he already is. More than that, he feels protective of their meeting. It had been an emotional outpouring for both of them, and he feels as though he’s allowed to keep it as something private between the two of them.

A few days later Zayn and Liam are both lazing around on the sofa in the living room, Zayn taking notes on an article about _Christabel_ while Liam seems to be enjoying an episode of _Friends_ dubbed in French. That’s when Liam’s mobile lights up, and Zayn can feel the air being sucked out of the room as Liam tenses up. He pauses for what feels like an age, and then types an answer before looking up at Zayn.

“It’s him,” is all he says.

“Yeah.”

Liam types out one more message before setting his mobile down, and resting his head in his hands. “I agreed to meet up with him before we leave,” he says, his voice muffled. “One more rendez-vous.”

“Okay.” Zayn isn’t sure how to respond, or how Liam wants him to respond. They haven’t spoken about this, and that was Liam’s choice. He shuffles his papers into a neat pile on the floor, and slides over on the sofa. He pries one of Liam’s hands away from his face, and gives it a squeeze. “Hey, come ‘ere. This might be good for both of you,” Zayn says, glancing at his _Christabel_ notes on the floor, unable to stop himself from once again thinking about the complexities of an unfinished work. “It’ll be like closure, right?”

Liam stares down at their entwined hands. “Closure. Yeah. Something like that.”

He doesn’t squeeze Zayn’s hand back, but Zayn does spy him giving a small attempt at a smile. It’s really just one corner of his mouth turned up, and it doesn’t come close to reaching his eyes, but Zayn will take it.

 

They only have two days left, and Zayn feels a bit mad. Eager to get back home on the one hand, and also already sick with missing Paris. As difficult as it’s been, he’ll miss the proximity to any museum he could ever dream of, the easy way he blends in on the streets in his all-black wardrobe, the ever-present haze of cigarette smoke.

Zayn leads himself and Liam through the winding pedestrian-only streets of the quartier Latin one last time. There’s a little Turkish deli on one corner that sells desserts, and Zayn is craving one more taste. They buy a white paper bag full of sweets, and wander through the cramped alleyways, sampling each kind of dessert, fingers becoming heavy and sticky with sugar.

Zayn spies a wrought iron gate standing unlocked, gaping open just slightly. It’s just enough for him to notice something colourful—light blue, in fact—hanging beyond on the other side. It’s one last opportunity to get lost in Paris, and Zayn finds himself not willing to stand still for once. This time Liam is the one hanging back.

“I’m not sure we should go this way,” he calls. “It’s not marked with street signs or anything.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Zayn reaches back, grabs him by the hand, their sugary fingers sliding together, and pulls him through. “You’re the idiot who’s been running all over Paris without a map. One little alleyway won’t kill us.”

It turns out that the colourful items Zayn had spotted are scarves, because there are more shops down this way. There are also the typical racks of postcards and keychains. It’s such a familiar sight by now that it could be any street in Paris, and yet, there’s a hushed atmosphere to it, making it feel like a secret passageway of some sort. Zayn feels like it’s _his_ passageway, like he’s discovered it. He’s sorry to leave when they reach the end of it, and are forced to exit back into the crowd.

They come out on the opposite side of the quartier, on boulevard Saint-Germain when they really want to be on rue du Petit Pont to get back to the flat. Zayn apologizes, and Liam does his very best not to make an _I told you so_ face. They stroll up the boulevard toward the Seine where they’ll be able to loop around to their street, Zayn spotting a bin to get rid of their now empty bag of sweets.

They’re passing by what looks like an odd little electrical goods shop when Liam stops. Zayn keeps walking for a moment before he realizes and has to double back. He stares in the shop window, trying to see what Liam sees, but it just looks like a bizarre assortment of travel adapters and metal hand tools, glinting up at them from the other side of the glass.

“What’s up?” he asks, nudging Liam with his elbow.

“Er—you can go on home, actually. I’m gonna see about something here.”

“You sure? You know we’re leaving in like a day, right? Don’t really need travel adapters anymore, aha!” Zayn gives him a silly smile.

“I know,” Liam replies, not joking, a determined look on his face.

Zayn takes a step backward, as Liam has only used that face in relation to one thing—or one person, really—since being in Paris, and whatever Liam is planning for his upcoming rendez-vous isn’t any of Zayn’s business.

“Later, Li. Text if ya need.” He curls a hand briefly around Liam’s wrist, and then leaves him to it.

Zayn keeps walking, but when he reaches the Seine, he turns left instead of the right he would make to get back to the flat. He lights up a cigarette and strolls along the river, not consciously realizing where he’s headed until he’s already reached his destination: the musée d’Orsay. Usually there’s a line snaking around the building to get inside, but not this afternoon.

The musée d’Orsay is much smaller than the Louvre, but no less breathtaking. Zayn stands just beyond the admissions counter for a moment, soaking it in. The building is a train station that had been left abandoned, then finally converted, and Zayn thinks he can tell. He can feel the history in the building itself, can sense all those years of sitting alone, before being brought back to life. Now it’s bursting at the seams with art that can reveal the history of France, if you look closely enough.

Zayn isn’t fooling himself anymore; he knows precisely which era in particular he wants to take a closer look at. He hops on the escalator going up to the top floor. (How odd, he thinks, to have an escalator in a Nineteenth-century train station.) He passes into the main Impressionist hall and turns in a circle on the spot. The room is bursting with vibrant colors. The heavy brushstrokes on every painting are tangible. Never before has painting felt so present, so alive.

The dreamy landscapes by Monet and Pissaro are mesmerizing, to be sure. Still, Zayn finds himself attracted to one painting in particular at the far corner of the room. From far away it seems as though a group of people form the subject matter. As he approaches, he realizes that the focus is actually one person within the group. He checks the information card tacked up on the wall next to the painting.

[La Balançoire, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, 1876](http://www.renoirgallery.com/paintings/large/renoir-the-swing.jpg)

The title confirms Zayn’s suspicions that the real subject of the painting is the woman balancing on the swing. She hangs suspended in mid-air, a thoughtful expression on her face, but steadfastly refusing to make direct eye contact with the viewer. Zayn wants to reach out and touch the ropes of the swing, sway with her, and understand what she’s thinking. But she is beyond him.

Zayn’s French isn’t great, if he’s being honest, but he can make out two phrases printed on the description card:

_Jeux de lumière_.  
 _Jeux de regarde_.

He takes out his pocket Moleskine and copies the phrases down in the original French. He then puts his notebook away again because he knows there’s no point in attempting to sketch this. He could never capture the color, or the quality of light it projects. He gets the feeling that color and light itself are the true subjects here, and if it happens to take the shape of a person, or a tree, or a swing, that’s incidental. And, that, perhaps most importantly, Renoir wasn’t aiming to capture light, but to channel it.

The color blue dominates Zayn’s vision. It’s everywhere, even the shadows cast by the trees are rendered in blue, and he detects a hint of Pere Louis’ unique combination of bruised steeliness in this shade. The other touches of blue remind him, inevitably, of Niall. Zayn shifts his weight from foot to foot and he knows he has to acknowledge it, here and now, before he leaves Paris. He has to admit: Niall means something to him. More than almost anyone else. And it’s silly, because it’s obvious, but he hasn’t admitted it to himself before.

Zayn knows that he doesn’t like Niall simply because Niall can give a hell of a blowjob when he sets his mind to it. And it isn’t because he teasingly, wickedly, withheld a kiss from Zayn either. Mainly, it’s very simple: he had gotten Zayn to talk. Niall had managed to get Zayn to really talk about all the things that are important to him. He had made it seem easy, which is amazing. But then he had withdrawn.

It’s different from the way Liam had become withdrawn, because Liam’s refusal to talk isn’t driving Zayn wild. Liam had driven him to seek out a priest. But Niall has driven Zayn to seek out Impressionism. Niall has driven him to confess his feelings before Renoir and his Balançoire, and that feels all the more significant because Zayn lives for art, but Impressionism isn’t his field of study. He suspects that maybe it needs to be.

La Balançoire continues to hang suspended on her rope swing. She lets Zayn collect himself, and tacitly agrees to keep his secret.

+

A post-it note greets Zayn when he returns to the flat:

_hiii! went out for a bit. don’t worry, be back soonnnn -L_

Zayn shakes his head and wonders when Liam had started adding extra letters when writing instead of just when typing. He wanders through the quiet flat, picks up a few of his books that are strewn around the living room, and figures that he might as well start packing. He’s tired from walking around all day, but he feels mentally fresh, which he takes as a good sign.

He’s making stacks of various books on his dresser when he notices something odd. The canvas bag where he keeps his paints and his brushes is half unzipped. This is strange because he hasn’t used his paints very often this summer, as he’d found sketching more conducive. In fact, he can’t remember the last time he had opened this bag except to take out a new sketchpad. He inspects more closely to find that two of his more delicate brushes have been used recently, and there’s a splash of yellow paint on the hardwood floor. He throws an area rug over the telltale spot of yellow paint, and takes his brushes out to the kitchen sink to clean up.

 

The first thing Zayn notices when Liam comes home a few minutes later is that his shoulders are relaxed. He stops in the doorway of the kitchen and stands still. Zayn tilts his head, considering him. He isn’t running.

The first thing Liam notices are the wet paintbrushes lying out to dry on the kitchen counter. He looks guilty. “I’m so sorry,” he begins. “I should’ve asked you, but then—I couldn’t wait. I had the idea, and I couldn’t put it off.”

Zayn isn’t angry, but he can’t help throwing up his arms and raising his voice just a little bit out of shock. “Painting? Liam, in all the years I’ve known you, I’ve honestly never seen you even look at a paint brush!” Zayn lets out a slightly hysterical, puzzled laugh. “As Niall would say, what is your _deal_ , bro?”

Liam doesn’t answer right away. He looks down at his feet, and then shuffles into the living room. Zayn follows him and watches as he sets his messenger bag down on the sofa, and starts unpacking a few items. He performs all of this very methodically. When he turns around to face Zayn and start speaking, it’s methodical too.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking during the last couple of weeks, as you can probably tell. At first, I was just doing a lot of wishing that circumstances were different. Then I started thinking, you know, maybe in another life, maybe in another time period... things would be different. But that got tiring really quickly, because it isn’t another time or another universe or whatever. It’s here and now. We were together—in a way—right now and right here in Paris. And I wanted to acknowledge that somehow.”

“How did you do it?” Zayn’s voice is a whisper.

“You know the pont des Arts?”

Zayn gasps because it clicks immediately in his mind: what Liam had spotted in that funny little shop, the paints, everything. Of course he knows the pont des Arts, he crosses it nearly everyday on his way to and from the Louvre. “Oh, Liam— ” he starts to say something, but nothing seems appropriate. Instead, he strides across the room and envelops Liam in a hug. Liam makes a surprised little huff, but he leans down into Zayn’s shoulder, even though he’s a good few inches taller, and lets Zayn stroke his back for a moment. “Hey,” Zayn whispers. “I think that’s brilliant. So fucking brilliant. I’m not even _that_ upset about the paint or the brushes.”

Liam pulls back, the hint of a smile playing across his face “I didn’t realize you had to wash paintbrushes.”

“Didn’t realize?” Zayn steps back, mock scandalized. “Have you learned nothing from me?”

“I wouldn’t say _nothing_. I’ve learned how much product I should put in my hair, you know, if I want to look like a tosser.” He reaches for Zayn’s hair, a goofy grin spreading across his face.

“Oi! Hands to yourself, please!” Zayn smacks him away, but doesn’t bother with a real comeback, because even though the smile still isn’t quite reaching Liam’s eyes, at least it’s there.

As Zayn fits his books into one of his suitcases that night, he thinks that Coleridge and Géricault could stand to learn a few things from Liam’s brand of self-expression. And maybe that also goes for himself.

+

Zayn deals with the luggage and locks up the flat for the last time while Liam goes to meet his priest. He’s just called for a taxi and is standing outside the building having one last Parisian smoke when Liam comes back into view. His shoulders are still relaxed. His eyes are shining like maybe he’s been crying a little, and Zayn feels a weight lifting off of his own chest in relief. Liam nods once at him, and he nods back.

He notices that Liam is carrying a book with him, but doesn’t think much of it. He finishes off his cigarette and says, “Come on, help me with the baggage. We have a lot to bring back to London.”

Liam clutches the little book all throughout the train ride. Zayn doesn’t ask about it because it’s Liam’s secret to tell, and he knows Liam will talk about it when he’s ready. When they reach London several hours later, it’s evening, and even though Liam appears to be more calm than Zayn has seen him in weeks, he’s clearly exhausted, much too drained to take on Harry and Niall, so they agree that Zayn will drop him off at his own flat.

The first thing Liam does is to flop face first down onto his bed. Zayn lugs his suitcases in and drops them on the floor near his closet, and then pulls a blanket up around Liam. He still has a grip on that book. Zayn makes a move to take it and set it down on the nightstand, but Liam only clutches it more tightly to his chest. Zayn throws his hands up in surrender. He can’t make out the full title, only the word “Paris” written in white block letters.

+

Zayn, his two suitcases, and his backpack tumble through the doorway of the flat he shares with Niall and Harry. It smells like various spices wafting down the corridor from the kitchen (Harry must be up to something), mingled with the scent of spilled beer, and Niall’s Old Spice deodorant. Home, Zayn thinks, it smells like home.

“What’s the commotion?” Niall comes racing into the corridor, and stops short when he sees Zayn. “Oh, you’re back!”

“Yeah,” Zayn confirms, rather unnecessarily. He and Niall simply stand there facing each other for a moment in silence. Zayn feels pulled taught, as though there’s an invisible line sparking between them.

Then Niall lets out a laugh, like Zayn returning home is some kind of brilliant joke. He steps forward and swoops an arm around Zayn’s neck. “Hey,” he whispers in Zayn’s ear. He pulls back, smile plastered across his face, before Zayn even has time to register Niall’s breath hot against his skin.

“What’s this? Am I missing the homecoming?” Harry comes crashing into corridor, wearing nothing except a pair of boxers and an apron, brandishing a large metal spoon. “Where’s Liam?” he demands. “I’m fixing him a birthday dinner!”

“It’s a good thing he isn’t here,” Zayn says, punching Harry lightly on the shoulder. “He’d be traumatized at the sight of this.” He taps the spoon.

“Oh, right, shit! Liam really is the most incredible and bizarre person, had you ever heard of anyone being terrified of spoons before? Anyway, wouldn’t want to traumatize him on his birthday. At least, not anymore than he already is, er—” Harry turns to Niall, and they exchange a look.

“Is he okay?” they ask in unison, looking to Zayn.

“Actually,” Zayn kicks at one of his suitcases, trying to move it toward his bedroom, “I think so. I really think so. He met up with Père Louis, like, as a one last time kind of thing.”

“Oh my god!” Harry gasps. “What happened? What did they do?”

“I dunno.” Zayn shrugs. He half-picks up and half-drags the immoveable suitcase. “I didn’t ask the details. It’s not my story to tell. But he seems a lot better. Like he’s more at peace.”

Niall shakes his head. “You know, I don’t actually feel sorry for him.”

“Niall the heartless!” Harry cries, pointing his spoon at Niall’s chest.

“No, listen!” That funny little melancholic smile flits across Niall’s face again. Zayn drops his suitcase to the floor. “Think about his summer. I mean, he got to spend practically the entire time with this person he likes, this person he loves, really. What’s better than that? I think he was lucky.”

“How can you possibly say that? Sure, they love each other, but they couldn’t be together! They weren’t even supposed to kiss! It’s the most tragic thing I’ve ever heard.” Harry is actually pulling at his own hair in frustration.

“Always with the goddamned dramatics.” Niall rolls his eyes, and pulls at the strings on Harry’s apron. Harry smacks his hand with the spoon.

“You think you’re being deep, but you’re not. You’re just being _sad_.”

“For fuck’s sake, I don’t even remember what we’re talking about!” Niall bellows at him. “I need beer, where is the beer?” He starts off toward the kitchen, but then turns on the spot. “Oh shit, Zayn, d’ya need help? With your baggage, I mean?”

“Finally! At least someone around here has some manners,” and he turns to glare exaggeratedly at Harry to keep from smiling too much at Niall. Niall picks up one of his suitcases while Harry grabs his backpack. Zayn eyes him. “You’re the worst person,” he says.

Harry giggles. “You love me,” he replies, kissing Zayn’s forehead and scampering off down the corridor, slinging Zayn’s backpack over his shoulder.

“Actually, I don’t even know you!” Zayn calls after him. “Who are you, and why are you wearing an apron around my flat?” Niall winks at him, as if to say _good one_ , and Zayn almost drops his suitcase for a second time.

Zayn lets the two of them go ahead and start on Liam’s birthday dinner, which they are now eating without Liam. (“Pretend like you’re Liam, Niall. Give me your restaurant critic review of it tonight, and I’ll improve on it for real Liam!” Harry exclaims.) He unpacks a few things in his room. It’s an odd thing, “his room,” because it feels foreign now, layers of dust settled over his collected works of Byron and Shelley. But one of his windows is cracked open, preventing stale mustiness from taking over the room, and, in fact, Zayn thinks he can detect a trace of Old Spice cutting its way through the air, as though someone in particular had thought to open it.

He tries not to think about what Niall had said to Harry about Liam’s summer. He can’t tell if Niall had been talking about Liam at all. Because, the odd thing—the thing that makes Zayn’s stomach swoop—is that Niall actually could have been talking about his own summer. But Zayn is careful not to let himself get carried away with this thought, remembering that Niall’s sad little smile had made an appearance again, as deliberately unreadable as ever.

+

Zayn begins to wonder how art collectors do it. How do they live day to day with incomparable masterpieces hanging in their homes? Is it appropriate to shuffle past a Warhol in your pyjamas, hair a tousled mess, clutching a mug of tea like a lifeline? Is the Warhol offended?

This is how he feels around Niall, sheepishly muttering bleary-eyed good mornings, while Niall has inevitably already devoured a full breakfast and launched into about seven different stories about events that Zayn can’t even pretend to keep up with. The unfortunate part about it is that he wants desperately to keep up with it, with all of it. He doesn’t know about Warhol, but it’s hard work living with a Renoir.

And it’s ridiculous because it’s _Niall_. They’re best mates, and they’ve lived together for nearly two full years now. Zayn has seen him stumbling into the bathroom and puking into the shower on the rare occasions his Irish constitution isn’t up to the task, and also that one time when he had come down with food poisoning (“I feel so betrayed!” he had moaned). It’s just Niall.

And that’s part of the problem. Because now Just Niall will call “Goodnight, Christabel!” as they pass in the corridor. Niall probably doesn’t mean anything by it, because he keeps walking and disappears into his own room. But Zayn will have to lean against the wall for a moment to catch his breath, and stop thinking about the one time he had tried to explain poetry to Niall.

It’s also ridiculous because Harry is involved, whether or not he’s aware of it. He’s a constant presence, either suggesting that they all go out together, or suggesting that they all stay in so he can cook. Zayn is torn between cursing him, and being grateful that he always provides a good distraction. Because he’s thought about it. Zayn sometimes sits perched at the edge of his bed, staring mindlessly out the window, just listening to whatever Harry and Niall are shouting and laughing about this time. It’s occurred to him that he could go out to the living room, sit down next to Niall, tell Harry to shut up for five minutes, and say… 

But that’s where he always gets stuck. Say what, exactly?

_You’re one of my best friends, and I love you for that. And I feel like, given some time, I could love you as even more than that, if you want to give it a try. In fact, maybe I’m halfway there already. And also, I really want to kiss you on the mouth, so maybe we could get to that part right away_.

Obviously it’s all too hopeless and embarrassing to ever be spoken out loud. He flops down on his back, running a hand though his hair, and trying to remember how this whole mess had started. They had initially settled the bet because Niall had approached him. He doesn’t think he knows how to return the favor.

And so he doesn’t. Zayn remains alone in his room, motionless and still, as usual.

+

Zayn has two weeks until he starts his PhD program. Liam is off visiting his parents in Wolverhampton before starting his job. Harry, who is on a slightly different schedule than the rest of them, has had the entire summer to complete his master’s dissertation, but has predictably left the really hard parts until the last minute, so he’s been holed up at the library all week. Niall has been working the evening shift down at the pub nearly every day, but he’s around somewhere this afternoon.

It’s quiet in the flat. It’s been mostly quiet in the flat. It’s been mostly Zayn compulsively rearranging the books on his bookshelf, thinking about spending the next several years of his life with one single goal in mind: publishing his own work. He can’t decide if the swooping feeling in his stomach at this thought is overwhelming fear or exhilaration, but he thinks he’s finally beginning to identify with Père Louis’ strong sense of vocational duty.

Zayn is sat perched at edge of bed, flipping through his Moleskine, looking for a particular page of notes about _Christabel_ when a voice cuts through his thoughts.

“You’re missing it, eh?”

Zayn looks up to see Niall standing in his doorway. “Missing what?”

“Paris.”

“Oh.” Zayn closes his notebook and sets it on the bed beside him. “Yeah, actually.” Niall walks into his room and leans against the wall, wordlessly inviting Zayn to talk. So he does. “It’s funny,” Zayn shrugs, “because Paris is tough, you know. Shit, man, Parisians, they’ll run you off the sidewalk if you’re not looking out for yourself. It was a challenge, but I miss it in some ways. In a lot of ways.”

“You like a challenge,” Niall says, with a gleam in his eyes.

Zayn stands up and faces him “ _Some_ challenges, yeah.”

“But that’s why you have your work,” Niall continues. “Your studying, it keeps you focused.”

Zayn takes another step forward in wonder. “Hang on, when did you become so perceptive?”

“It’s like this: you like to study books and art. It’s like a mirror. You can look at them, consider them, and they reflect something back to you. I like to study people. The cool thing about people is that sometimes, they don’t just reflect, they talk back.” He gives a little giggle, and reaches out to punch Zayn’s shoulder. “And sometimes they just act like some kind of morose statue who can’t speak!”

“Ow!” Zayn cries, but the punch didn’t really hurt. It felt kind of nice, honestly. “Sorry,” he apologizes. “Sometimes I forget. I forget that I can talk back. You always remind me.” They’re standing just inches apart now, Niall still leaning back against the wall. He’s wearing a red polo shirt, the collar of which is sticking up on the left side. Zayn reaches out and smoothes it down, lets his hand linger around Niall’s chest for a moment, then looks him in the eye. “I’ve been thinking,” he says, taking a deep breath, “about _Christabel_.”

Niall raises an eyebrow. “Any new theories you wanna share with the class?”

“No,” Zayn shakes his head. “No, I’ve been dwelling on something old. The last time we talked about _Christabel_ , we—well, we were settling a bet. But, I feel bad.” His hand is still resting on Niall’s chest. He moves it upwards and curls his fingers around Niall’s shoulder. “I just thought that I could…” He looks Niall in the eye. “What do you want?”

“Is this a question of genre?”

Zayn could punch Niall in the face. Zayn could kiss him. He does neither of these things.

“You remember?” he asks, his voice sounding screechy, much to his horror. “What I said?”

“Of course I do, why wouldn’t I? For someone who’s so fucking smart, you come out with the most idiotic rubbish sometimes.”

Zayn decides to ignore the jab. “It _is_ a question of genre.” He presses on. “What’s your answer, then?”

Niall tilts his head, sliding it along the wall. His eyes are slightly narrowed, like he’s assessing something. Reaching a conclusion, he says, “Fair’s fair, yeah?”

In answer, Zayn hops over to kick his bedroom door shut. (Can never be sure when Harry will decide to come crashing back into the flat.) But then he’s back, pressing his hand harder into Niall’s chest, and Niall lets out an impressed-sounding gasp. Zayn stares at Niall’s mouth, his bottom lip looking a little bit worn, as though he’s been biting it. Zayn would quite like to bite it. He leans in, but can’t finish the task. The stakes are higher than he could have guessed when they had started this entire bet business, and he’s not yet ready to fully show his hand. Instead, he grabs at Niall’s chin, tilting his head back, and kisses from his jaw all the way down to his shirt collar.

Zayn feels Niall’s arms suddenly around his back, pulling him closer, fingertips scratching, searching for some kind of hold. Zayn doesn’t think he can get any closer, body pressed up against Niall, his face in Niall’s neck. He parts his lips, and he doesn’t really bite, per se. Zayn just lets his teeth rest on the skin of Niall’s neck, until he feels a shiver running down the length of Niall’s body. He smoothes his tongue over the sensitive skin, then presses his lips down until he’s sure that it’s his mouth that will leave the bruise, rather than his teeth.

Zayn pulls off and surveys Niall, his cheeks burning pink and his head drooping down the wall. He looks out at Zayn from underneath heavy eyelids, his blue eyes gone dark and roiling. Zayn thinks he detects shades of Géricault’s _Radeau de la Méduse_ , and that won’t do. He’ll have to fix that.

Zayn lets one of his hands slide down Niall’s torso, can feel Niall’s stomach trembling at his touch. He lets his hand come to rest at the top of Niall’s trousers, and is reminded of the first time they did this, how desperate Niall had made him. That’s the strange thing, where Niall had made him talk, now that their positions are reversed, Niall isn’t saying anything.

Zayn drops to his knees, one hand still at the waistband of Niall’s trousers, holding himself steady there. “Is this what it takes?” he asks, his voice pitched low and gravelly. “To get you to shut up for five seconds?”

Niall’s hands are now free, scrabbling along the wall, looking for purchase somewhere. He manages to flip Zayn off. Zayn just grins, and begins undoing Niall’s trousers. He can tell Niall’s already on his way to being hard, so this won’t take too much effort—not that Zayn would mind. He had missed this the first time around, had been out of it while Niall had taken care of himself. Somehow, even though he had been the winner of the stupid bet, it had made him feel like the bet was only half-completed. Niall was right to say “fair’s fair,” because it’s only now, with Zayn kneeling before him and pulling his trousers down, that things were really fair between them. And Zayn realizes, as he gets a hand around Niall’s dick, that that’s what he really wants: to have a sense of equilibrium. It’s as though he sensed that this could happen between himself and Niall.

Niall still isn’t saying anything as Zayn strokes along the length of Niall’s dick, and hovers over it a little wickedly with his mouth, just breathing. But Zayn can hear his blunt fingernails scraping along the wall. He leans his head back, and catches Niall’s eye. He raises an eyebrow and inclines his head, hoping that Niall gets the message, as they seem to be communicating without words now. It takes Niall a moment, but then he moves one hand and rests it tentatively on Zayn’s head. Zayn nods and leans back in. One hand still gripping the base of Niall’s cock, he lets his forehead rest on Niall’s thigh, and bites at the soft skin on the inside of his leg. Niall gives a little yelp, and digs his hand further into Zayn’s hair. That’s what Zayn had hoped for. He waits for Niall to get a good grip, then shifts to nose a little around his dick before finally taking him all the way into his mouth.

It isn’t the first time Zayn has done this, but it’s certainly the first time he’s done this where it’s felt like more than just sucking someone off. It’s surreal, balancing trying to balance his train of thought, remembering to breathe through his nose, and not drool too much, as the point is to get Niall off, not gross him out. Niall’s making noise now. He’s still not saying anything discernible, but definitely moaning in a way that makes it sound as though he’s into what Zayn’s doing.

Zayn keeps looking up through his eyelashes to catch sight of his face. Judging by the tugging on his hair, it’s probably distracting, but he doesn’t care. He has a one-track mind, and his sole focus is to see Niall as he comes. His head is thrown back against the wall, eyes shut tight. His face, and even his neck are flushed pink now, down past his shirt collar.

Zayn brings one hand up, and pushes at Niall’s hip, pressing him back into the wall as hard as he can manage with just one hand, while at the same time chasing his cock with his mouth, taking him in as far as he can stand. That’s what does it. Niall’s eyes fly open, interweaving flashes of dark and light blue. Zayn’s never seen anything more alive, and he knows they’ve reached the tipping point.

“Zayn!” Niall cries out in a choked voice.

He could pull off if he wanted to, and Niall’s hand pulling at his hair seems to be telling him to do just that, but he doesn’t. He waits until Niall has shuddered through it, before pulling away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He wants to say _Next time, I wanna hear you_ , but doesn’t. “Next time” is too presumptuous, and “wanna hear you” seems too forward, in an odd way.

Because Zayn deals in silences, they’re his specialty. And Niall’s silences, being so rare, are particularly difficult to decipher. Zayn doesn’t have a point of comparison, hasn’t had enough experience to know what this particular silence meant for Niall. Even though Niall enjoyed himself in one obvious way, Zayn had phrased this as a one-time thing to settle their bet once and for all. He can’t tell whether or not Niall would want to do it again, let alone if he’d be open to suggestions.

Niall pulls his boxers and his jeans back up around his waist. Zayn is still kneeling on the floor, his legs starting to tingle like they’re falling asleep from being bent in the same position. His trousers are tight anyway, but they’re pulling uncomfortably across his dick, painfully hard, by this point. Zayn winces, and makes a movement to stand up but, before he even realizes it, he’s being pulled to his feet. Niall’s got a hand underneath each of his armpits, dragging up from the ground, and pushing him backwards towards the bed. It’s awkward because Zayn’s legs still aren’t working properly. Niall has to wrap an arm around his back, and they stumble as one, falling over onto Zayn’s bed.

“These stupid skinny jeans!” Niall is fiddling around with the button on Zayn’s trousers, but he barely notices, too preoccupied with the fact that Niall is talking again. “So bloody tight, how can you even breathe? Get them off, get them the fuck off, will you!”

“What’s wrong,” Zayn grunts. “Don’t you like a challenge?”

Niall bites at his neck in answer. He finally wins the battle against Zayn’s jeans, and moves away to shove them down around Zayn’s knees. Zayn gasps as Niall wraps a hand around his dick. Niall’s movements are fast and a little rough. Zayn likes it. He has to throw an arm over his eyes because he knows he isn’t going to last long, and looking at Niall won’t help.

But Niall won’t let him block everything out. He’s right there at Zayn’s ear, talking again. “Come on, I know you’re almost there. Come for me, Zayn. Know you wanna.”

That’s all he needs, really. Zayn comes with a jolt, curling over on his side, and burying his face in Niall’s neck. He’s glad that his expression is hidden, afraid of what it would give away.

They stay curled together like that for a few minutes, letting their breathing even out, as late afternoon sunlight streams in through the window and across the bed. Zayn can feel the light even through his eyelids. He cracks one eye open and leans his head back. Niall’s eyes are still closed, his hair sticking to his forehead in a sweaty mess. Zayn thinks about pressing a kiss to his forehead, but he rolls away instead. He props himself up on his arms and shimmies back into his trousers. He knows he should shower, and probably brush his teeth, but he doesn’t have any plans for the rest of the evening, that can wait.

Niall stirs next to him, a languid smile playing its way across his face even before he opens his eyes. Zayn can’t help noticing that even his laziest smile manages to be bright. He blinks his eyes open and looks at the ceiling, before turning to face Zayn. “For the record,” he states, “I do like a challenge. And besides, I think I must have been successful,” he says, with a bit of a smirk.

“Yeah,” Zayn giggles. “You finally figured out how trousers work, you deserve a round of applause.”

Niall rolls up on his side, propping himself up on one arm. “Wasn’t what I meant.” He reaches out to flick at Zayn’s hair. Zayn blinks and lets him do it. “See? You never let anyone near your hair. But now…” Niall raises an eyebrow.

“That was a special dispensation,” Zayn declares. “Not a standing invitation.”

Niall sits up, howling with laughter. He’s clambering on top of Zayn, straddling him, and going for Zayn’s hair with both hands. “Special dispensation, my arse! I’ll show you a special dispensation!” Zayn bats his hands away, but doesn’t really try to stop it.

 

Just as suddenly, Niall climbs off of him again. He slides off the bed and bounces toward the door. Zayn sits up almost violently, the worst sense of déjà vu haunting him. “Where are you going?” he asks.

“It’s getting late, and I gotta shower before work. I’ll let you know before I leave. You’ll have the place to yourself tonight,” Niall answers matter-of-factly before disappearing, shutting the door behind him.

Zayn hunches over, deflating. He brushes his hair off of his forehead, trying to smooth it down, and he notices his notebook lying on the floor. It must have slid off the bed when the two of them had fallen onto it. He picks it up and it happens to fall open to the page where he had taken notes on _La Balançoire_. Zayn rolls his eyes at this coincidence, but then considers the page: the most sparse one in his entire notebook. It’s mostly blank space except for the scribbled title of the painting and the two phrases he had scribbled down. Jeux de lumière. Jeux de regarde.

He hears the sound of the shower being turned on across the hallway, and he thinks about what had just transpired. He had approached Niall, he had been able to do it without even realizing. It had been surprisingly easy once he had begun, because Niall has that uncanny ability to get him to keep talking, keep walking, keep _doing_. But that’s the thing about the jeux de lumière: it’s illuminating, but it’s also ephemeral. Light can waver, and in an instant, flicker out.

+

Zayn is sitting at the kitchen table, his Moleskine open in front of him, reading over some old notes on _Christabel_. He’s keeping to himself while Harry and Niall make Liam’s Happy Belated Birthday dinner. It’s not that he’s avoiding interacting with Niall, but it’s easier to sit on the sidelines. Nothing has really changed between them, except that Zayn is more sure than ever that Niall is, well, _something_ to him, and he still has no idea how to express that to Niall.

Niall doesn’t appear to have anything like that on his mind at the moment, as he’s supposed to be getting all the booze set up, but is mainly preoccupied with irritating Harry while he cooks.

“What’s wrong with a stir-fry?” Harry asks Niall, in outrage that any of his culinary ideas would be questioned.

“Too many veggies,” Niall states, as though it’s perfectly obvious.

“Good thing I’m making this for Liam and not for you, then.”

“Can’t you find a way to put some bread in it?” Niall whines. “Come on, chef. What’s the point if you don’t get creative?”

“Do you even know what a stir-fry is? Bread, honestly!” Harry sticks his nose in the air, and puts on an exaggerated French accent. “You know nothing about _l’art de la table_.”

“I know about l’art de la Guinness, and that’s all I need,” Niall declares, tossing a dishtowel at Harry. “Why didn’t you stay in France and take cooking classes or some shit anyway?”

“I wanted to!” Harry huffs, and throws the dishtowel back. “Stupid bloody dissertation getting in the way. Sentence structure in Virginia Woolf. Worst topic to choose, because now I’m so sick to death of it, I’ll never want to read Virginia again.”

“Never read Woolf again?” Zayn cuts in. “Impossible!”

“No!” Niall yells. “Stop talking about school, I don’t care!”

Harry narrows his eyes. “You’ve been letting Zayn talk about academic shit all the time lately.”

Niall pauses, looks over to Zayn, and then back at Harry. “That’s because he’s good at explaining things. There’s a reason he’s gonna be a professor, you know? And there’s a reason you won’t be.” He smiles wickedly, then walks over to Harry and drapes the dishtowel over his hair, carefully arranging it over his curls. Then he turns to Zayn. “You! Put your notes away. Stop being ridiculous, this is supposed to be a party!” Zayn doesn’t think he’s the one being ridiculous—Harry is now tying the towel under his own chin—but he closes his Moleskine and puts it off to the side.

Just then, Zayn’s mobile buzzes at the same time that the doorbell goes off. It’s a text from Liam:

_Hereeeeee :))))_

Niall looks over his shoulder. “Just gonna take a wild guess, but I think it’s Liam at the door.”

Zayn giggles even though it isn’t really that funny. “What kind of observant genius right here,” he grazes his hand along Niall’s arm just because Niall is standing next to him for the first time that night, and because he wants to. He lets himself lose himself in the touch for just a second, then jumps backward and points to Harry. “Watch him,” he says to Niall. “Make sure he doesn’t burn the joint down, and I’ll get the door.”

 

“Finally!” Liam cries in mock outrage when Zayn opens the door.

Zayn forgets to make a snarky reply, and almost forgets to let him in, as he’s too busy staring. “Your hair, bro! Shit, I mean, come in!” Zayn grabs Liam by the wrist and pulls him inside. He shuts the door, and then just takes Liam in for a moment. He’s sporting a fresh buzzcut. The haircut draws his face into sharp focus, his wide brown eyes appearing bigger than ever now. Zayn thinks he can see new layers in his eyes—like the rings that grow inside tree trunks—that hadn’t been there at the start of summer. He remembers Père Louis’ bruised but steely gaze, and realizes just how much the two of them had grown together over their summer, and how, in the end, they had been forced to grow up. Liam is wearing his black Parisian jacket, and a scarf wound around his neck, looking every inch the young adult about to start a job at a trendy record label. “You look fucking sick!” Zayn pronounces, and pulls him in for a hug.

“Thanks,” Liam laughs, the sound muffled in Zayn’s shoulder, as they sway on the spot in a tight hug. “It was my mum’s idea, actually. Her advice was, after an emotional upheaval, you should spice things up. Do something different. So, this is different.”

“For sure,” Zayn runs his hand over Liam’s head, feeling the prickly short hair. “Sick,” he repeats. Then he really looks at Liam, looks him directly in the eye. “You like it though?”

“Yeah,” Liam holds his gaze, doesn’t flinch away. “I’m not naïve, making a small change like that, it doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t make things magically easier. But, I do like it. And I feel better. I feel good.”

Something like a lump forms in Zayn’s throat at Liam’s words. He sounds earnest, the sharp edge that had characterized him toward the end of Paris now dulled to just a faint metallic glint. Zayn swallows hard and tries to speak without letting his voice give him away. “I’m so glad, Liam. So fucking glad.” But Liam must be able to tell because he takes Zayn’s hand and gives it a quick squeeze before walking further down the corridor.

“I thought this was a party, where is everyone?” he calls.

“Speaking of emotional upheavals,” says Zayn. “There’s one in the kitchen cooking you dinner, so be careful.” Liam grins and then breaks into a run to get to the kitchen. Zayn, who never sees a need for running, follows at a more leisurely pace, and hears Harry let out a screech.

“Stoves are HOT, Liam!” Harry is scolding. “Haven’t we been over this? I’m the chef here, don’t interfere. If you must grab people’s waists, go grab someone who is in a non-stove area.” He’s waving a spatula in Liam’s face, but he’s also smiling ear-to-ear, apparently never so happy in his life than he is right now, bossing Liam around his kitchen.

“Liam! Payno!” Niall yells. He’s now sitting on the countertop, a beer in one hand and attempting to open a bottle of wine with the other. “Looking good, me aul son! Now come help a lad out here, will ya?” Liam laughs as he spots Niall, his eyes crinkling up. This sight causes that pesky lump in Zayn’s throat to threaten again. There are probably a million things he could do, but Zayn can’t think of anything else at the moment, except to stride over to Niall, grab the beer out of his hand, and take a few quick swigs as a distraction to keep any embarrassing tears at bay.

Niall shrieks in outrage, but Zayn just smiles innocently up at him through his eyelashes. “Sorry, couldn’t help myself.”

 

They all help themselves to quite a bit of Harry’s cooking (even Niall decides that the stir-fry is acceptable), and afterwards, Harry produces a homemade chocolate cake from the refrigerator. Niall holds his hands over Liam’s eyes while Harry and Zayn light as many candles as they can fit on the cake. When Niall uncovers Liam’s eyes as the three of them begin singing Happy Birthday, Liam immediately buries his face in his own hands.

“Time to blow your candles out, Liam!” Harry shouts.

“See if you can get them all in one go,” Niall adds.

“Make a wish, Liam,” Zayn says in a quieter tone of voice.

Liam looks up at the three of them. He’s lit by the glow of the candles, and his face looks as though it’s about to break in half from the effort of both attempting not to cry and smiling so hard at the same time. He manages to blow all the candles out in two tries. None of them ask what he wished for.

The four of them sit around the kitchen table, late into the night. The wine is long gone by now, and Niall has circled back to drinking beer.

“So, Niall,” Liam nudges Niall’s hand with his own, “have you told them yet?”

Zayn sits up a little straighter in his chair as he asks, “Told us what?”

“Niall’s coming into work with me on Monday.”

“What, like, bring Niall to work day?” Harry giggles.

“Nah, gonna go in and apply for a job there too. I know this guy, Josh, who works there, so hopefully he can help me out.”

“You sneaky Irish bastard!” Harry’s grinning at him. “Everyone will love you. You’ll land the job, and probably be CEO within the year.”

“Yeah, me and Liam are gonna be running shit. Good thing you two are already friends with us.”

“What do you mean?” Zayn croaks. “You wouldn’t be friends with us otherwise?”

“Two massive dorks like you, not a chance,” Niall winks. He takes a sip of his beer and looks around the table. “I just thought, all of you guys are doing things that are really important to you, and maybe it’s time for me to get my shit together, too. Could be nice to do something besides slinging pints for a living,” he holds up his hands, “even though that’s obviously the most important and sacred job in the world.” They all nod out of respect.

Zayn leans across the table. “I think that’s brilliant,” he says quietly, just for Niall.

“I didn’t mean to keep it a secret or anything,” he answers, matching Zayn’s tone of voice. “I talked to Liam about it because, I dunno, it was relevant to him.”

Niall shrugs and goes back to his beer. Zayn continues staring at him, wondering how to communicate the fact that, to him, everything about Niall is relevant. He snaps out of his reverie when he feels a tapping on his foot that turns out to be Harry nudging him under the table. Zayn tries to glare at him—Harry is waggling his eyebrows in a way that Zayn would normally ignore—but he can’t really pull it off. He’s overcome with the sinking feeling that he’s given too much away this time.

They sit for a little while longer, each of them reluctant to end what feels like their last night together before they split apart and become real adults.

“I was just thinking,” Niall breaks the silence, “about the last time we all had dinner together. In Paris.” Zayn makes a hissing noise, like _what the fuck, man_ , can’t stop himself. But Niall isn’t paying attention. He’s locked eyes with Liam. “I’m sorry he couldn’t be here now.”

Liam doesn’t crack. He just looks back Niall with a wistful smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I’m sorry, too, but, well…” Liam wriggles around in his seat, taking something out of his pocket. He produces a small book. Zayn sees white block letters on the cover, and realizes that it’s the same book Liam had been clutching the whole way back to London.

“ _Paris Pratique par Arrondissement_ ,” Harry reads the cover out loud. “What does that mean?”

“It’s a map,” Liam says simply.

“You carry it with you?” Niall asks in a gentle voice.

“Yes,” Liam answers. “One time, I needed a better map, and now I have the best.”

He doesn’t need to explain any further than that. The three of them understand why Liam has a map of Paris, and who had given it to him. Zayn wonders how he and Niall could ever have made their bet in the first place. How could they have imagined the possibility that Liam’s priest wasn’t real? Even now, Liam’s priest—Father Tommo, Père Louis, Louis—is a tangible presence in the room. He’s here with them in the only way he can be, through the little book sitting at the center of the table.

 

Zayn thinks back to the night, over two months ago now, when they had made the bet. The metro had already closed, and Zayn was making his way home alone from a bar. He was walking along the Seine, sticking close to it, because he knew it had to lead him back to the flat eventually. He had taken out his mobile because he wanted something focus on, and dialing Niall’s number seemed like the next logical step.

Niall had picked up on the second ring, sing-songing Zayn’s name, “Zaynie!” and quickly admitted that he was well on his way to being faded, and currently raiding the kitchen.

“Going it alone?” Zayn asked. “You shouldn’t have to do that. I should be there with you.”

“Nah, it’s cool. It’s my night off. Harry’s out, who knows where. What about you? You sound like you’re outside. I can hear things, sirens or some shit.”

“Yeah, I’m just walking home. Wanted to call you on my way.”

“You out by yourself? You really shouldn’t have to do that. Where’s Liam?”

“He was out to dinner with his new mate I was telling you about. The priest.”

“Ha! A priest, yeah, you told me. A likely story.”

“Shit, you think Liam’s making it up?”

“I dunno, it’s so bizarre though. How in the fuck do you make friends with a priest in the first place? He’s not even Catholic!”

“If anyone would know how to befriend a priest, it’s Liam.” Zayn stopped walking to pull a cigarette out. He put it between his lips and let it rest there, unlit, just for the feel of it. “I don’t know,” he continued. “There’s something about it. I think their relationship is… it might be….”

“What? Just spit it out.”

“It’s serious.”

“Like how do you mean?” There had been an edge to Niall’s voice.

“Like they’ve obviously become friends by now, but I get the feeling there’s something more to it. Liam, I don’t know how describe it, but he’s different. There’s something real between them.”

“Huh, well, definitely sounds like you’re implying _something_. Which is it? Are they friends, or are they in love?”

“Don’t know! Both, maybe. Can’t it be both?”

Niall had let out a long breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I think it could be.” Zayn thinks that he probably should have known right then, should have guessed everything. But he hadn’t because he was still slightly drunk, and walking alone in the dark. And because Niall had laughed and said, “Still think you might be full of shit though!”

“Come to Paris and see for yourself!” Zayn had insisted, and that had been it. They had agreed that Niall would come to Paris, and they had made the bet official. Zayn just wanted to be home lying in bed by that point. It didn’t occur to him to think about how he had felt the need to hear Niall’s voice, or how he had probably agreed a little too easily to bet a blowjob with one of his best friends. And he had certainly never thought about the fact that Niall had also agreed to the bet, or about how he had answered the call, maybe in need of something on his end as well.

Zayn looks over at Niall now, considers his profile. He’s spinning his empty beer bottle on the table, shards of light reflecting on his face, and smiling at something Harry is saying. Zayn had spent all summer searching for meaning in writing and artwork, in part, to cover up for the fact that he wasn’t really seeing the irrevocable shift that was happening in one of his real life relationships. It had been his defense mechanism. He thinks about Niall’s funny, indecipherable smile. Niall doesn’t have art in the same way that Zayn does, but maybe he needed a defense, too. _Jeux de regarde_ , Zayn thinks. And it makes sense that Niall’s defense mechanism is as simple as a smile that doesn’t quite let Zayn in.

Zayn’s throat feels tight again, as he realizes he’s teetering on the edge of untangling the messiness of an unfinished work. He continues watching Niall, and it’s like colors rushing together to reveal a fully formed picture, only this isn’t a painting. It’s Niall in real life, which is so much better.

 

“Someone has to walk Liam home,” Harry declares, as he stands up and starts to clear the dishes away. “Nialler, will you do it? Pretty please?”

“I don’t need to be escorted!” Liam cries in protest. But he’s giggling, clearly still a little wine-drunk. “I have a map,” he says, picking up his _Paris Pratique_ from the center of the table and putting it in his back pocket. He sounds so happy about it that none of them bother to point out that a map of Paris isn’t of much use in the dark at two am in the middle of London. They all know that isn’t what the map is for.

“Hey,” Zayn walks around the table and draws Liam into a hug. “Niall’s just gonna make sure that you and your best map make it home, is that okay?” Liam nods into Zayn’s shoulder and pulls back, a sleepy smile on his face.

Niall jumps on Liam’s back, running a hand over his new buzz cut. “I’ll be your secret service agent, Payno, let’s go!” He looks at Harry, who is standing over the sink. “I see you’re not worried about me getting home alright, though.”

“That’s because we know that, even though you’ve had more to drink than the rest of us, you can take care of yourself,” and Harry gives him a look like _you better take care of him though_.

Liam turns to give them a little wave. Zayn waves back, knowing that Liam will be okay. Weeks ago, Niall had been confident that things would work out for Liam, and maybe, after all this time, they finally are. But Niall will walk him home now, just to be sure.

Zayn carries his empty wine glass and plate over to Harry, and makes to leave them at the sink, but Harry points the bottle of dish liquid at him. “I’ll wash, you dry.” Zayn follows instructions because this is Harry’s kitchen, and he’s in charge. Zayn takes a clean dishtowel out of the drawer and falls in place next to Harry, waiting for him to initiate the conversation. “So, anything been on your mind lately?”

Zayn knows he has to give a real answer because Harry is determined to have some kind of serious talk with him, and when Harry sets his mind to something, he gets what he wants. “Been thinking about Impressionism lately,” Zayn says with a shrug, aiming for casual.

“Impressionism? Is that what we’re calling it?” Harry answers with a wink, handing a plate over to Zayn. “We should give everything code names like that.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about!” Zayn cries, but it’s difficult to look indignant while drying off a plate. “I’ve been thinking of incorporating Impressionism into my research.”

“Why the sudden interest though?”

“I know it seems sudden, but I think it’s been a long time coming, actually. I only realized how much it means to me after—” Zayn pauses, he doesn’t want to say Niall’s name. “After you left Paris. When it was just Liam and me on our own again, that’s when I realized. And I’ve been thinking about it ever since I got home.”

“What exactly appeals to you about it? About Impressionism?”

The sink faucet is still running, and Harry keeps squirting the bottle of dish soap everywhere so that little bubbles are floating around the kitchen. Zayn is certain that this is the most absurd conversation he’s ever had, and that this entire situation is ridiculous. But Harry is looking at him with this gentle expression like he understands that Zayn can’t quite say the name yet, but still might need to talk about it anyway. And, goddammit, it’s so irritating when Harry is right. Zayn sets down the plate, and takes a deep breath. He tunes out the running water, the soap bubbles, and everything else except for his own feelings.

“The thing is, I’m always looking at artwork, but I had taken Impressionism for granted. It’s been a part of my life for a long time, so I hadn’t really considered it. But, once I did, I realized that it’s deceptively challenging. It’s so different from what I normally look at—so bright, so full of light—and that forces me to change the way I think. Sometimes I get stuck in my own mind-set, but Impressionism doesn’t let me do that. And that’s good for me. It’s something that I need. And now that I know all the good things Impression does for me, I don’t know what I’d do without it.”

Harry turns off the faucet and pauses for a moment. The sudden quietness of the kitchen seems very loud to Zayn in the wake of his confession. Then Harry’s darting over and kissing him on the forehead. “Sorry, wanted to give you a hug, but my hands are soaked.”

“Nothing like that’s ever stopped you before.”

“I’m trying not to ruin the moment, alright? Credit where credit’s due!” Harry chuckles, but then his expression turns soft again. Zayn has to look away, embarrassed. “That’s amazing that you have something that’s so important to you. You were right not to take it for granted. What Impressionism means to you, not everyone has that. You shouldn’t let it go.” Harry turns back to the sink, surveying the dishes left to do. “That was an ace speech, too. Full marks. I’ll recommend to the dean that you graduate with honors.”

“Shut up, I already have graduated with honors. Twice,” Zayn hisses at him, but he hopes the smile he gives Harry is communicating, _thanks for listening_.

“I thought something was going on with you, all this time. You made that bet earlier in the summer, and it makes sense that you’re into Impressionism, because I’ve noticed you staring a lot lately, especially tonight. But, you deserve to know something in return, so this is just between us.” Harry pauses, picks up a wine glass, and twirls it in his hand before looking over at Zayn. “I’ve noticed Impressionism doing its fair share of staring back at you.”

+

_Don’t let it go_ Harry had said.

Zayn thinks this would be great advice if he’d ever had a grasp on Impressionism in the first place. But, as he had seen at the musée d’Orsay, the constant interplay of light makes for seriously transient subject matter.

Zayn’s been giving some thought to it, and it isn’t that Impressionism’s light and colorful nature means that it’s automatically a happy-go-lucky art form. Along with light comes shadows, and La Balançoire’s averted eyes communicate a kind of pensiveness in which Zayn had detected shades of Père Louis’ hard-won conviction. And it isn’t that Niall is always happy either. It’s that his silences and his more melancholic looks are rendered in brushstrokes and colors that Zayn has never seen before. Niall isn’t something that he can copy down into his Moleskine and try to analyze, and Zayn isn’t used to that.

But if he’s learned anything from Romanticism, it’s that self-expression can be worth the risk, can result in something beautiful, even it’s complicated and messy and not quite fully-formed. All this time, he’s been trying to maintain a poker face while keeping his hand to himself, but Harry had called his bluff. His PhD program begins in just a few days and he’ll soon be caught up in the flurry of meeting new professors and checking out library books. He may not have a chance of taking Harry’s advice right now, but he knows that he really never will if he doesn’t finally play his full hand, and show it to the one person who counts.

That’s how Zayn finds himself closing his bedroom door behind him and heading down the corridor toward Niall’s room. But, the thing is, Niall is already walking toward him. They both grin before stopping to face each other.

“I’ve been doing some reading,” Zayn starts.

“Breaking news!”

“About the National Gallery.”

“You’ve been reading about art? But that never happens!”

“Did you know about the restaurant there? That it’s really legit? Jamie Oliver praised the menu.” Niall stares blankly at him. “What, no snappy comeback this time?”

“Zayn, I swear to god, do not joke with me about Jamie Oliver.”

“I would never,” Zayn insists. “What I’m trying to say—very badly—is, wanna grab some lunch?” Niall tilts his head to the side, and then brushes past him down the corridor without a word. “Sorry, was that a yes or a no?” Zayn calls after him.

“That was a ‘fuck yes, let’s not waste time talking and _go_!’”

 

The National Café is all hardwood floors and dark mahogany furniture. Zayn supposes that the décor is meant to be atmospheric, and it’s nice in an expensive-looking kind of way. All the same, as they’re being seated, Zayn chooses to sit beside Niall instead of across the table from him. He’s glad that he has Niall with him to brighten up the room.

“There must be a separate entrance just for the restaurant,” he says after they place their order. “I can’t believe we got tickets to the museum just to eat lunch.”

“Don’t worry.” Niall takes a sip of his Diet Coke. “We can go look at some art or whatever afterwards.”

“Go look at some art or whatever,” Zayn repeats. “Nice, that sounds really sophisticated.”

“Won’t be as good as lunch, obviously.” Niall gestures around the restaurant as though there’s nothing better than being at a place whose sole function is to serve food. “Nah, I know you like that kind of thing. Art. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

“We’re here because I asked you to come with me. And you agreed.”

“Of course I agreed, you absolute nutcase. You invited me for food!” Niall giggles, then his face turns serious. “I like it. I like that you like art, and writing, and books. I like that you’re passionate about that stuff, because it gets you talking. And I like it when you talk. I like listening to you. Sometimes you don’t talk, and that’s okay, too. You have your own vibe, that’s cool. But, I just wanted you to know, that it’s also cool to hear you. I like hearing what you have to say.”

“Shit, Niall.” Zayn twists his napkin in his hand, his cheeks burning. “Don’t know what I can say to that.”

“I mean it. It’s like how you explained all that stuff about _Christabel_ to me. I would never have thought about that. I hadn’t even heard of _Christabel_ before you mentioned it. But it’s something that you think about all the time. It just reminds me that there’s this whole other area of life that I don’t know about, and it’s kinda brilliant. It reminds me not to be stuck in my own head all the time, you know? Which I guess is kind of the point of art anyway.”

Zayn’s jaw actually drops, he can’t help it. He wants to tell Niall that maybe he should be the one pursuing a degree because he just distilled the concept of art into the most casual and apt summation that Zayn has ever heard. He wants to tell Niall how everything he just said is exactly the way Zayn feels about him, and isn’t it crazy how two people can be in sync like that, without even consciously realizing it? But their food arrives, and his train of thought is interrupted in the chaos of rearranging the table to accommodate all the plates and Niall’s eagerness to dig in.

“You’re a painting,” is what Zayn ends up saying.

Niall chokes on his first bite of pasta. “Sorry?”

“You’re like a painting.”

“Come on, man, I just said I like hearing you speak. You’re really gonna choose right now to start talking complete rubbish? You’re the worst.”

“Think about it,” Zayn insists. “What is a painting anyway? It’s about conveying movement and light on a two-dimensional space. I’ve been fascinated by Impressionism lately, I’ve been giving it quite a bit of thought. The thing about Impressionism is that, not only does it channel light, but Impressionist paintings are lit from within. All the best paintings are. They create their own light source. And that’s what you’re like. That’s what you do.”

Niall’s fork falls to his plate with a clatter. “Oh, fuck.”

“Even when you’re not happy, even when you’re not talking. It still shines through. And that’s really nice. It’s a nice thing about you. The nicest, really.”

Niall’s eyes cloud over at the mention of him not talking. “In Paris, after we… you know. After the first time, I wasn’t avoiding you or not speaking to you on purpose. It’s just that I didn’t want Harry to know, not yet anyway. And everything with Liam was so fucked up. It didn’t seem like the right time to talk about anything.”

“It was a mess,” Zayn agrees.

“And then the second time, I wasn’t avoiding you then, either. But, I still wanted to keep it a secret. Between us. Because it was even better then, that second time,” Zayn notices a flush creeping down Niall’s neck at this admission, “and I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“Nothing is ruined. But, I should tell you, Harry knows.” Niall’s eyes widen, but Zayn holds up a hand. “No details, don’t worry. But he knows that I’ve been, well, that I’ve been thinking a lot about Impressionism lately.”

“Oh, christ. What’s the Styler’s input?”

“Just that it’s great that I found something that means so much to me, and that I shouldn’t let it go,” Zayn pauses, takes a bite of his food, and doesn’t look at Niall as he continues. “I thought that might’ve been good advice if I had a real hold on Impressionism in the first place. But I don’t really. I’m not sure I ever will.”

“You have more of a hold on it than you think.”

Zayn looks up now to see that Niall is staring intently at him. The cloudiness has dissipated, his blue eyes flashing bright and clear now. He’s got a splash of tomato sauce right by the corner of his mouth. Zayn could be polite and tell him about it, or he could act on his instinct. He chooses both. “You’ve got a little something, here, let me—” He grabs Niall’s chin, bringing him closer, and finally lays his whole hand out on the table.

He brushes his lips across the corner of Niall’s mouth in a gentle first touch, and then licks away the errant tomato sauce. Zayn is about to pull away for a second, just to make sure this is okay, when he feels a hand grabbing at his t-shirt, and he’s being pulled all the way in. Then Niall is kissing him, tilting Zayn’s head backward just a little bit to properly fit their mouths together. Zayn is reminded of the fact that it was never just his bet, it was always Niall’s, too. And now that all their cards are on the table, they can really share it. Niall tastes like tomato basil sauce, and something effervescent like Diet Coke, or maybe just like Niall. Zayn wants to drink it in for the rest of his life.

“Perfect,” Zayn tells Niall. “You taste like what you love most in the world. That pasta,” he points to Niall’s plate with a grin.

“You taste like everything you love. Cigarettes, and old books, and Romanticism.”

“You’re so full of shit!” But Niall merely shakes his head. “Okay,” Zayn concedes. “I’ll give you the cigarettes.”

“Romanticism,” Niall insists.

 

Zayn kisses Niall again as they pay the bill. And as they walk out of the restaurant. And again as Niall tries to look at floor plan of the museum.

“Will you cool it,” Niall laughs against his mouth. “We’ll get thrown out, and banned, and you’d really hate that.”

“No. Wouldn’t care. Wouldn’t care at all,” Zayn breathes out, resting their foreheads together.

“You would. You’d sulk about it in your room for weeks.”

“You could come visit me. I can think of some activities we could do in my room. Together.”

“You’re a disgrace! We’re in the presence of masterpieces, have some respect,” but Niall snakes a hand around Zayn’s hip, giving him a little pinch that promises a few later activities.

They eventually get a good look at the floor plan and make their way around the museum. They spend a long time in front of Turner’s [The Fighting Temeraire](http://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/joseph-mallord-william-turner-the-fighting-temeraire), which Zayn thinks is the exact balance between Romanticism and Impressionism. Turner managed to render a painting in soft-focus, before cameras and filters had been invented. Zayn feels there’s something melancholic about the gentle light of the sunset, and is reminded of the jeux de lumière. The Temeraire may have been in fighting shape at one point, but the sunset seems to be communicating a sense of loss, and Zayn turns to Niall, a lump threatening in his throat again.

“Can we do this?”

“Do what? Stare at art? Not sure what else we’re supposed to do at a museum.”

“No, I mean, you’ve got that job interview soon.” Niall nods, beginning to catch on. “You’ll smash it, obviously. And I’m starting school again in a few days. So, can we do this?”

“Of course we can.”

“It will be okay though, right?”

“It will be okay, Zayn.”

Niall’s unwavering confidence is reassuring, but it’s somehow different from when he had been confident about things working out in Paris. Zayn looks around him, and everything is different from Paris now. The National Gallery was never a palace built to house the kings of France, or a train station given new life. It was always meant for artwork, and the gallery rooms are wide open spaces, built to accommodate and show off the various displays. Zayn isn’t used to so much open space, and he pauses in the entryway into one of the portraiture halls.

Niall looks back at him. “Something wrong?”

“It’s not Paris,” he says, which isn’t exactly what he means to say, but it’s what comes out. “I imagined it, what it would be like going to a museum with you, going to the Louvre. I thought about all the paintings I would point out to you. But it’s different here.”

“You’re always missing it, aren’t you? Paris.”

“Yeah. I don’t know why, exactly.”

Niall turns all the way around to face him. “Paris is like Romanticism for you. It’s difficult. It scares you a little. You like that.”

“You scare me,” Zayn admits. Niall barks out a surprised laugh, then claps a hand over his mouth to keep quiet. “It scared me how upset I felt when we weren’t really talking to each other. It scared me how much I missed you, all summer. It scared me how happy I was to see you again.” Niall doesn’t say anything, just contemplates him with a serious look in his eyes that’s reminiscent of Père Louis. “I’m used to feeling that way about all this,” Zayn gestures around the museum. “Art, books, that’s how they make me feel. But I’m not used to another person making me feel so much all at once. It’s fucking terrifying.”

Niall walks toward Zayn, but takes his time, as though he’s working through something in his mind. “So, that’s how all these paintings make you feel? If that’s your description of Romanticism, then I think I finally understand it.” Niall locks eyes with Zayn. “More than that, I think I can identify with Romanticism. And you taught me that. You showed me.” Zayn’s breath catches in his chest at Niall’s words.

“It wasn’t all bad, Paris. It wasn’t all a mess, was it?” Zayn asks, feeling oddly desperate, like he’s on the edge of a precipice. Niall shakes his head in agreement. “Not even for Liam. He fell in love in Paris, and isn’t that why people go there? He knew right away that he had stumbled onto something important. He knew that it was love,” Zayn pauses, and Niall takes another step closer to him. “I think maybe I fell in love in Paris, too, but it took me a lot longer to realize.”

“Hmm,” Niall considers. “You’re speaking in uncertainties though. You think? Maybe? Is this another question of genre?”

“No,” Zayn says in a firm voice, taking one of Niall’s hands in both of his own. “It’s not a question this time. It’s my thesis statement.”

“Write me an essay, then.”

Zayn turns Niall’s hand over. He traces his fingertips in swirling patterns along Niall’s wrist, then looks him in the eye. “I will.”

Niall stares back at him with that odd look, pensiveness and sadness pulling at the edges of his smile. Zayn feels his stomach sinking and, just when he thinks it’s sunk low enough to drop right out of his body, Niall’s smile breaks wide open and shines through his eyes. Zayn feels a stinging at his own eyes, as he realizes that he’s cracked the jeux de regard. He didn’t solve it, still doesn’t quite know what exactly that look had meant, but that’s okay. It’s enough that Niall is smiling openly at him now. It’s enough that he places a hand on either side of Zayn’s face, and wipes his eyes dry. 

“Hey,” Niall whispers. “I’m here with you now. You know what that means? It means we can be scared together.” Then he kisses Zayn lightly on the lips, and leads him back through the museum.

On their way out, Niall slings his arm around Zayn’s shoulder and laughs, saying, “If you buy me dessert, I promise not to tell Liam and Harry that you cried in the middle of a museum.”

“No such thing happened,” Zayn insists. “Your blackmailing attempts are libellous!” If he then wraps his arm around Niall’s waist and suggests they go for ice cream, it’s purely coincidental.

 

Outside the National Gallery the afternoon September sun is still bright, the sunset not yet in sight. Niall hops down the museum stairs, baring his teeth and making fierce faces in imitation of the lions presiding over Trafalgar Square. Zayn pauses for a moment to watch. Niall jumps down the last few steps, suspended briefly in mid-air, and Zayn thinks _balançoir_. Except that Niall’s gaze isn’t averted. He’s turning, looking up at Zayn, holding a hand out, and that makes all the difference. Zayn snaps into motion, descends the last few steps himself.

Even in taking Niall’s hand now, he’s reminded of the fundamental impossibility of capturing light and pinning it down. He thinks there will always be something a little bit elusive about the jeux de lumière and the jeux de regard. But he doesn’t mind, because with his outstretched hand, Niall invited him to live in his whirlwind of light and color, and is now leading Zayn along, letting him get caught up in it too. There will be the occasional shadows, to be sure. But walking with Niall reminds him of the things they’ve already done, the variations of colors they’ve already established, in Paris and elsewhere. It reminds him of all the new shades they still have yet to discover together.

Zayn decides that, actually, the elusiveness of Impressionism is a good thing. Because he never wants to stop studying it.

+

**Dark to Light**  
 **Shifting Moods, Shifting Perspectives in Nineteenth Century Art and Literature**  
 _Coleridge to Hardy_  
 _Géricault to Renoir_

Oxford University Press  
copyright 2019  
by: Zayn Malik

**Author's Note:**

> 'jeux' literally means game in French, but I think the best way to translate 'jeux de lumière'  
> and 'jeux de regarde' would be this: 'the interplay of light' (i.e. light and shadows) and 'the exchange of looks' (either between people, or between the subject of a painting and the viewer).


End file.
